


Dragon Ryder

by Adam_Yozza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Original Character(s), the Dance of the Dragons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:29:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adam_Yozza/pseuds/Adam_Yozza
Summary: The Dance of the Dragons was a brutal civil war that brought the Targaryen dynasty to it's knee's and all but wiped out their dragons. But what difference would one more player make to the Dance? Could one more dragon rider save the Targaryen's and their dragons from near extinction? Contains Slash.





	1. Jacaerys I

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is set in the year 120 AC, nine years before the Civil War starts. The next couple of chapter will be based around the years leading up to the Dance, with several time skips being used. These early chapter are just to introduce the characters and set up the relationships between them.

Storms were not something Jacaerys feared. Though the wind howled as though an angry god was bellowing in rage, and the rain lashed down impressive force and quantity, the Prince of Dragonstone did not flinch. Rather the opposite, in fact, the Prince was grinning broadly, barely affected by the the rocking of the boat as he stood at the prow of his grandfather's pride and joy; the War Galley Sea Snake, the flagship of the Velaryon fleet that had been named after the moniker of the man who led said fleet. Jacaerys thought it a little bit much to use such an impressive war ship as a simple transport vessel between King's Landing and Dragonstone, but his mother's father; King Viserys; wasn't taking any risk. Apparently no expense was spared when it came to the safety of the royal family.

In truth, Jace should have been back at Dragonstone nearly a month ago, with his mother and brothers. But once again Aemond Targaryen had ruined things. The ten namedays boy was a menace. Four years older than Jace, Aemond was the second son and third child that King Viserys had born to him by his second wife, Alicent Hightower. In the privacy of his own mind, Jace believed that being cruel and arrogant must be a Hightower family trait, but in public was courteous enough with the family; such consideration was not shown to the Queen's offspring. Aegon; the King's oldest son; and Aemond were both quick to anger and were often cruel to their younger nephew's. Jace was sure that they and their mother were responsible for how widespread the rumor's about his parentage had become.

Officially, Jace's father was Laenor Velaryon. Jace himself had no doubt that this was true. However, that Jace had been born with brown hair and eyes, instead of the silver hair both his parents possessed, many of his father's uncles and cousins had begun to claim that he and his siblings were actually fathered by Harwin Strong, the now deceased heir of Harrenhal that had been his mothers friend in childhood and eventually became her sworn sword. These accuser's compared Jace, Lucerys and Joffrey to Ser Harwin and brought up his father's well-known degeneracy's as further proof. Personally, Jace thought he and his brothers looked more like their grandmother Aemma Arryn. The Arryn's had similar traits as the Strong's; with the exception of their pug like noses; and if his mother's cousin, Jeyne, was any indication as to what grandmother looked like then Jace would be inclined to guess that he inherited his looks from her.

Frowning, Jace wished that spreading rumors; rumor's grandfather had quickly put down by ordering that anyone that spoke of it would have their tongue's torn out; was the extent of Aemond's antagonism towards the Velaryon siblings. But on their last visit to King's Landing a much more tense confrontation had taken place. It seemed both Aemond and Jace had gotten the same idea. Both wanted to tame the dragon Vhagar, the last of the dragons from the conquest and the largest of the mighty beasts still alive. This shared desire had led to a fight outside the dragonpit between Aemond and his three oldest nephews, resulting in Luke's nose being broken and Aemond's eye being cut out with a dagger.

Jace winced at the memory that brought up. Queen Alicent had been furious at what had happened to her son and wanted the same to be done to Luke in retaliation. It was fortunate, the six year old Prince supposed, that the five year old Lucerys was the King's favourite of all his children, grandchildren and niece's. He had consented to a whipping for each of them; by which he meant each of their whipping boys; but had been firm that he would go no further than that and had; Jace had been told later; privately congratulated Luke on doing so well with his blade at such a young age. Though the punishment was lenient, Jace still thought it unfair. They hadn't even been the first to draw their knives, no matter what tale Aemond spun to his mother. Even worse, Aemond had managed to tame Vhagar. The smug satisfaction on Aemond's face had made Jace want to remove the craven's other eye.

His mother had immediately began to have their belongings packed for the trip back to Dragonstone. She was unwilling to remain in the city when her half brother went unpunished for starting the fight by slapping the youngest of the brothers, two year old Joffrey. The plan had been to move back to Dragonstone, but that plan was halted when Jace started to develop a fever. A slash across the stomach that Aemond had given him had become infected, forcing the move to be halted. Eventually, tired of the constant tension, the King sent his heir and her children back to Dragonstone, promising to send Jacaerys along when he had recovered.

So here he was, standing at the front of the triple decked War Galley that was taking him home, where he hoped to tame one of the untamed dragons that had set up their lair on the island that housed the ancient Valyrian fortress or at least hatch one of his own.

There was a bright flash of lightning and then not a few a seconds later a roar of thunder that sounded rather similar to the roar of a dragon. Jacaerys' grin widened. He had been raised on Dragonstone. While such storms as this were not as common as they were in the aptly named Stormlands or even along the coast of the Vale and the bay known as the Bite they weren't exceptionally rare either. While Lucerys had often been forced to seek comfort in the arms of their mother and, more recently, their great uncle Daemon, in fear of the noise, Jacaerys felt exhilarated whenever they happened. This was no exception.

"Young Prince!," he heard from behind him. Turning, he saw the grizzled old captain of the ship, Lacaerys Rambton. With hair that was more gray than silver, Jacaerys estimated the man was about a decade older than his uncle Daemon. Lacaerys was the younger brother of Lord Rambton of Hull; a small keep on Driftmark sworn to House Velaryon; and had been a leading commander in Daemon's war against the Stepstones. The man was soaked to the bone, with a black leather cloak wrapped around his shoulders. It's hood was barely doing anything as water dripped down the fabric to land on the man's prominent nose.

"You should return to your cabin, my Prince," the veteran said "This storm is something fierce, might be you'd be safer inside. And a good deal warmer too I'd think,"

Jacaerys nodded in slight disappointment, but he could see what the man was saying. His clothes had been soaked through within minutes of the storm picking up and he was shivering a little. He had only just recovered from one illness. He wasn't excited at the idea of getting another so soon.

Jacaerys started towards the Captain, when another flash of lightning lit up the sky around them. Then the drums of thunder rolled again. It sounded less roar like this time, to Jacaerys disappointment. But then, a moment later, there was another earth shaking noise, much closer to the sound he had heard only a minute or two ago while at the prow. Intrigued, Jacaerys stopped and observed the sky around them. There had been no flash, which meant the noise was not thunder, as he had first assumed. No, that was the roar of a dragon. Jace knew that no sane dragon rider would take their mount into the sky in a storm like this unless absolutely necessary, regardless of whether the beast was big enough to withstand the gale. Which meant one of the wild dragons was about; the Sea Snake's crew would have to be very careful until they knew which one it was. The Grey Ghost was shy and avoided humans whenever possible. Sheepstealer; as the name implied; was more like to hunt sheep than humans and the Cannibal was also aptly named, as it only feasted on it's own kind. Any of the three would likely leave the ship alone, though the Cannibal was temperamental at best. If the Bronze Fury was about though, or Silverwing...

The boy looked at the Captain and saw the man had recognized the sound too. All the time around Caraxes he was bound to, even if he hadn't grown up next door to the most dragon inhabited island in the country. Rambton opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted, this time by one of his own crew.

"Milord!" the dread filled voice called out in warning, pointing behind the highborn pair. Jacaerys spun around but it was too late. The force of the massive wave; that had for a moment towered over the massive boat, threw the Prince across the deck. He barely managed to grab hold of one of the ropes to keep himself from being thrown overboard. A dozen, maybe two, of the crew members on the deck were not so lucky. The main mast had snapped in half and wooden spikes impaled several of the crew while the mast had crushed two more into a pulp right before the six year old's eyes. The boy wanted to be sick.

Growing up in a warrior based culture, Jacaerys understood the concept of death from an early age. But as a royal living in a time of peace it was always rather abstract. He heard about great battle's fought years or even centuries in the past. He had seen the trio of dragon skulls that decorated the Throne room in the Red Keep; Balerion, dead of old age not a few decades past, Meraxes, killed in Dorne more than a century ago and Quicksilver, torn apart by Balerion some ninety years previous. The little of death he had seen involved the burial of his father and aunt, the Velaryon siblings Laenor and Laena. He hadn't witnessed either. Seeing the gruesome deaths not ten feet from his face was horrifying to the child.

The waves had knocked the ship of course, the Sea Snake now veering far too much to the left of the designated course and leaning on a dangerous tilt. However the main sail was down and the second ripped and torn. Even had they not been, the constant hammering of the waves would have made correcting their path nearly impossible. As it was, the Sea Snake was being forced further and further to the left.

Jace could see Rambton shouting orders that the boy couldn't hear, and clutching at his left arm which had bent at a sickening angle. There were shouts from every direction, as well, some scared and some determined. They were mixed in with the screams of the injured and dying. Then, Jacaerys heard one cry go up that was louder than them all. He may not know all that much about sailing at such a young age; though certainly more than someone from the mainland; but he knew what that word meant. The combination of both the word and the panic that filled the voice meant that Jace didn't even have to look to confirm his thoughts.

"ROCKS!"

Unable to help himself, Jace did turn. The massive jagged rock jutted up from the sea by nearly a hundred feet, one or two more of a similar nature just barely visible beyond it. Jace knew that there would be many more too far away to be seen through the storm, just as he knew that there would be dozens of smaller rocks just beneath the surface of the water for each of the tall ones. He knew exactly where they had ended up. The Spears of the Merling King were well known to any sailor who frequented Blackwater Bay. Jacaerys had heard his grandfathers Lord Corlys and King Viserys complain about losing a ship captained by a novice being lost to the Spears often enough. They were treacherous waters, and Jace knew that the underwater rocks could shred even the strongest of ships undersides to pieces.

It happened exactly as he knew it would. No matter of work could turn the Sea Snake from it's course and the second they came within half a dozen feet of the spear, there was a mighty lurch as the bottom of the ship was ripped apart and water began to flood the vessel. Jace himself was thrown to the deck and his head cracked painfully against the wooden planks. His sight became unfocussed and his head felt inexplicably heavy. He pressed a hand to his hairline and when he pulled it away it was covered in a sticky, crimson red liquid that he knew was not a good sign.

"My Prince! Move!" he heard vaguely. Jace's mind was clouded, and instead of moving he sluggishly turned to see what the problem was. His eyes widened and at the last second his eyes widened and his head cleared. There was no time to do anything though, as he was sent flying over the side of the ship by a second colossal wave. He impacted painfully with the water, thankfully; somehow; missing the jagged rocks that were hidden beneath the tide. Jace panicked briefly underwater, trying to swim to the surface. Though a strong swimmer; having been taught by his father and great uncle; Jace's small body was powerless against the waves and even if he wasn't, he could barely tell which way was up. His lungs began to burn and his arms and legs were heavy and tired. He felt as though something had grabbed him around the chest and was pulling him away. He wondered if this was what death felt like; if this was what the sailors aboard the ship had felt as the mast crushed them, or the spikes impaled them or as the waves dragged them down as they were doing to him.

But then he wasn't in the water anymore. He was above it, rising higher and higher with every second. And the feeling around his chest hadn't gone away yet. He looked at his chest and he was shocked to see a dragon's claw, clutching him in it's grasp. Wildly, he glanced around and then finally looked up and confirmed what he thought he must be imagining. Shocked to his core, Jacaerys could do little more than gape at the rather large dragon that was flying him away from the soon to be wreckage of the Sea Snake that Jace could see far below him. The dragon, Jace estimated was probably about half the size of Caraxes and was as white as snow; though Jace had not experienced that particular weather before, he imagined the comparison was accurate enough. From his position, Jacaerys could just barely make out the outline of a small figure that was sitting on the dragons back.

It must have been close to an hour; or perhaps more, as Jacaerys wasn't sure if he had passed out from exhaustion at some point; that the dragon landed. They were on a small island, with a stone castle sitting atop the cliff they had landed at the base off. To the east, Jacaerys thought he might just be able to make out a long peninsular of land, that was probably Massey's Hook, unless the flight had been far longer than he had thought. Which would make the castle Sweetport Sound, seat of House Sunglass.

The dragon had unceremoniously dropped him on the beach; from a low height, thankfully; before collapsing into the sand itself. After pushing himself up onto his knees, Jace noticed that the dragon was injured, with several open wounds in it's flank. The figure on top of the dragon dropped to the beach himself and seemed rather distressed over the injuries. Rightfully so, Jace knew, as most dragonriders formed close bonds with their dragons and to lose a mount was not pleasant according to the stories he'd been told.

Jacaerys wasn't surprised at the care being shown for the dragon by it's rider. He was surprised, though, when the figure's hood fell down and revealed the rider to be a boy of an age with Jacaerys himself. The boy was taller than Jace, though less stocky, with brown eyes and short, messy dark hair. There was a faint trace of Valyrian ancestry to be found in the boys face, but nothing that stood out to much. Jacaerys only noticed it because he was looking for it, knowing it must be there else the boy couldn't have bonded with a dragon.

Hearing the sound of hooves behind him, Jace glanced around and saw a group of riders approaching, their banner bearing the colours of House Sunglass, proving Jacaerys assumption on their location correct. Jace quickly clambered to his feet and hastened over to where his savior's stood (the boy) or lay (the dragon). Seeing the tears in the boy's eyes as he looked at his companion, Jacaerys did the first thing he thought of.

In a gesture he'd seen Daemon make for grandfather when father died, he put his hand on the boy's shoulder "Help is coming. He'll be fine," he promised.

Sniffling, the boy turned a questioning gaze on him. "How do you know?" the boy asked. The accent was odd. It was some sort of odd mix of Northern and Essosi. Now that he looked a bit closer, Jace thought that his features did rather remind him of a northman.

Jacaerys found some of his usual confidence returning to him, though he knew his voice still shook slightly. "My family knows everything about dragons," he boasted "They'll help him. I'm Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. What's your name?"

The boy hesitated for a moment before replying "Lucos," he said "Lucos Ryder."


	2. Viserys I

124 AC

Viserys

The King of Westeros stood in the yard in front of the imposing Red Keep. His lovely wife of nineteen years stood beside him to his left. Dressed in a finely embroidered green dress, Alicent Hightower had retained the slight frame and lithe body she'd had when they first married, despite four childbirth's, and struck a very attractive image as she stood in the summer sun. The look was marred only by the blatantly visible scowl her beautiful features. To Viserys' regret, the same expression could be found on all of his children as well. His eldest son, Aegon; now a man of eighteen years, with rather thin, silver hair and somewhat pinched features; and his only daughter, Helaena; who had not handled childbirth as well as Alicent had, and was quite plump with a lot of fat still clinging to her; stood to his right, each holding one of their recently born twin children to their body. Viserys wasn't particularly impressed nor fond of Aegon; the lad wasn't all that skilled martially nor administratively, and was entirely too quick to anger; but he already adored his newest grandchildren.

Aemond was the next in line. Though only four and ten namedays old, the boy was noticably tall and broad for his age, and he seemed to have inheirted his skill with a blade from his uncle, Viserys brother Daemon. He was a dominant force in the training yard. That the boy had managed to tame Vhagar at such a young age was worthy of praise. Still, Viserys found himself somewhat disappointed in his second son, despite the boy's natural talent with a blade. Like his older brother, Aemond was proud and arrogant. He held his temper in check better than Aegon, but was prone to bursts of cruelty and jealousy.

At the end of the line was Viserys youngest son, Daeron. The boy was the most promising. He had heard from Maester Orwyle that Daeron had expressed an apptitude towards strategy and tactics, and he'd progressed better with numbers, letters and history than any of his full siblings. The child lacked the arrogance his older brothers had. Daeron was remarkably humble and kind, both of which had been reported to the King by Daeron's tutor's. Being of an age with Jacaerys, the King's eldest grandson, Viserys had hoped that his youngest would be the key to mending the gap between the two branches of his family, and the traits the ten year old exhibited had only reinforced this belief. It seemed that was not the case. Forcing them to take their lessons together had only served to highlight their distaste for each other, and Daeron was further fueled in his hatred by Aegon and Aemond.

At that moment, all four of his children wore the same disdainful expression his wife did.

They'd been taking a private family meal when the news had reached them. Viserys had been glad of the occasion; so rarely was there a chance for his wife and children to all join him for a meal these days. Helaena was always looking after Jahaerys and Jahaerya, Aegon and Aemond practicing their riding high in the sky or their swordsmanship in the yard, never finding time to spend with him. But Daeron's tenth nameday was soon to pass, and it gave him the excuse to bring his family together often. Though Viserys was ashamed to admit, he wished he didn't have to invite Aemond. The King was unnerved by the boy. Aemond had lost an eye to Lucerys Velaryon years ago and recently had a saphire put into his eye socket to replace it. The stone served it's purpose, and was certainly very intimidating.

Viserys had been helping himself without retraint; he failed to see the point anymore, as his girth would either kill him or it wouldn't; when a red-faced, out of breath servent had rushed in to inform them that the sentry's on the wall had spotted a set of dragons making their way to the capital. Knowing it could only be his daughter coming to attend the feast Viserys had arranged for the upcoming nameday of Daeron and the recent one of Jacaerys, Viserys had ushered his family to the yard in order to greet them properly. By the time he'd made it to the courtyard, Viserys was almost panting with exertion. It made him wish for the days of his youth. While the King had always been rather plump and heavyset, it was only in recent years that his size had grown to the problematic size it had and started to cause him health problems.

His family were not the only attendents in the yard that day. Tagaryen men at arms stood guard on the battlements and against the walls, while the Kingsguard and the Small Council formed the line behind the Royal Family, the White Knights standing tall and proud, their eyes always alert. Behind them stood the other courtiers; minor nobles and guests, as well as the household of Red Keep like the stablemaster and the Master at Arms. Everyone who took residence in the Keep had gathered. No less was expected to great the heir to the Iron Throne.

He was yanked out of his musing's by a mighty roar that woke his grandchildren from their slumber, and the ruler of the kingdom supressed a groan at his brother's need to show off.

The first dragon to land was large and fearsome, with yellow scales and luminous eyes of a similar colour. Syrax wasn't the largest or oldest of the dragons but neither was she the smallest. Rhaenyra had been seven when she tamed Syrax, the young dragon she had hatched only a few years earlier. As expected, Viserys saw his eldest child slide down from the back of the dragon. Rhaenyra had suffered the same problem as Helaena. She had gained a lot of wieght from five pregnancies, and she carried a large bossom and thick waist with her now. Viserys, despite the effect child bearing had taken on her, still believed she had grown into a rather beautiful girl.

His own brother was the next to set his dragon down. Out of all the current Targaryen's, Daemon was the most battle hardened. The man had enjoyed a great deal of freedom in his youth; and, in fact, still did; and during this freedom, Daemon had grown bored. To alleviate this boredom, the warrior had taken Caraxes and the Velaryon fleet to conquer the pirate islands of the Stepstones, warring with both Dorne and the Triarchy to do so. Before long, Daemon Targaryen was King of the Stepstones, a title he gave up to Viserys himself only a few years later. Viserys often envied his brothers ability to do as he pleased, though he still hadn't forgiven the man for that 'half a day heir' comment.

Caraxes himself was a sight to behold. Known as the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes' scales were a dark red and his back and tail were ridged with spikes. While Vhagar, Vermithor, Silverwing and Dreamfyre all outstripped the dragon in size, Caraxes was easily the most fearsome and had seen more battle than any of them, with the exception of Vhagar.

It was the last two dragons that caught Viserys interest. One was a very dark green colour and looked rather young. He knew that it must belong to Jacaerys, and it had been hatched only two years ago. Viserys had been unaware that Jace had managed to tame and ride the dragon yet, and the beasts name was also unknown. In some ways, Viserys was glad. Daeron had also recently bonded with a dragon, though he had not hatched his himself. He had forged a connection with Tessarion, who's last rider had been Viserys own father, Baelon. Her bright blue colour had earned her the nickname the Blue Queen, and the regality of Tessarion showed she fully deserved such a title. Jace and Daeron becoming riders at the same time would give them something to bond over...or it could simply reinforce their rivalry. Either way, Viserys supposed he should just be grateful that his oldest grandchild had recovered fully from his ordeal aboard the Sea Snake and had still been willing to ride after it. The King had heard of how a flight at such a young age could stop a child from ever mounting a dragon again.

Turning his attention to he last dragon, Viserys wasn't slow to work out who it belonged to. Rhaenyra and her family had not returned to King's Landing since the incident at the Dragonpit four years beforehand, and Viserys couldn't blame her, much as it irked him to see his family at odds, but that hadn't stopped the King from receiving news. He'd heard of the young Lucos Ryder that had appeared from nowhere atop a mighty dragon to save Jacaerys. Though he had never met the boy, or his dragon, the dark haired youth could only be the young Velaryon's constant companion. From what he had heard, Ryder and Jacaerys were hardly ever apart, which had led to some rumours about Jacaerys' inclinations. Viserys was interested in discovering if those rumours were true and, if they were, putting a stop to it. His heir's son had enough rumour surrounding him already. The dragon, which Viserys believed was named Snowfyre, seemed almost too large for the boy to ride. Easily the size of Sunfyre; Aegon's magnificent golden dragon; Snowfyre was an extremly pale, icy blue colour and dwarfed Jacaerys' own mount.

The four dismounted quickly, and made their way over to where the King stood with his family. When they were not three feet from Viserys, Rhaenyra stopped and curtsied delicately while Daemon, Jacaerys and Lucos all bowed lowly (with Ryder's looking rather stiff, as though he were not used to the action).

"Your Grace," Rhaenyra greeted charmingly.

Viserys laughed heartily and brushed off the formality, drawing her into an embrace "None of that, my dear, none of that. You are my daughter, not a vassal!"

"Thank you, father," she smiled at him "It is good to see you after so many years."

"It'd have been a good deal less years if you left that bloody island sometimes," he boomed merrily, turning to his grandson "Why, you didn't even tell me my eldest grandchild had started riding yet!"

"I only started some weeks ago, grandfather," Jace told him, a charming grin on his face "We wanted to surprise you."

"Then you suceeded. I'm glad though. Daeron rode Tessarion for the first time recently too," he told them, his pride in the two boys showing. He carefully ignored the way Jacaerys' face tightened slightly at the mention of his uncle, nor did he observe Daeron's hands clenching into fists at the fact that Jace was allowed to ride over the Blackwater already, where he had been forbidden from doing by his mother "After Daemon, I'd say the pair of you are some of the youngest riders I've ever seen!"

Daemon still had the small, devious smirk that had always infuriated Viserys when they were younger, and it was on show for eveyone to see "You always did claim I was born on a dragons back, dear brother," he smirked, as he stepped forward and the brothers clasped each others forearm. The difference was incredible. Daemon's arm was muscled and toned, clad in steel gauntlets and leather riding gloves. Viserys arm was plump and soft, like the rest of him, covered by a bright red silk shirt.

Viserys turned his attention to the last guest. The boy was standing stifly, and not moving an inch though Viserys could tell the lad was desperately trying not to fidget. Many underestimated Viserys; understandably, given that he would likely lose to even the shoddiest of Knight's; but he knew how to observe people, when he wasn't willing himself to ignorance. The way Ryder's eyes were focussed on the ground indicated shyness, and that he had positioned himself firmly on Jace's right hand side screamed loyalty. The tension in his pose suggested that he was not used to the circumstances he now found himself in. It was odd, Viserys thought, that Ryder should act as though he had never met a royal, or even a superior before. He was Westerosi, of that there was no doubt, depsite the Valyrian blood he obviously had, and distinctly northern too. The Stark's had raised all seven hells when they heard of a Ryder in the south. Yet, any nobleborn man or woman in westeros had been taught the etiquette about greeting someone of a higher rank. So why hadn't Ryder?

"You must be Ryder?" Viserys addressed him, putting his questions aside for the time being.

"Yes, your grace," the boy muttered "Lucos Ryder, your grace."

"Then I am obliged to give my thanks, lad," Ryder looked up for the first time since first being addressed "Were it not for you, I would have lost a grandson a few years past. That is a debt I will forever try to repay."

"No thanks is needed, your grace," Ryder spoke hesitantly

"Nonsense, nonsense. I insist you join us for supper tonight!" Out of the corner of his eye, Viserys saw Alicent's head snap to him when he said that. The glare she focussed on him was withering, and had he been a lesser man he might have quailled. But he also saw the delight that filled Jace's eyes and knew he wouldn't be backing down. "Now then, let us head inside. I'm sure you recall where your rooms are? Good. I'll have a few maids set up chambers for Lord Ryder in the same wing, and send some servants to draw a bath for each of you so you can clean up after your journey. I'll see you all for supper."

With that the meeting broke up. Aegon and Aemond instantly began making their way towards the gate, claiming that they were going to visit the Dragonpit (Viserys absently ordered Ser Willis and Ser Lorent to go with them). Daeron insisted on training with the Cargyll brothers, while Helaena took her children back to their chambers. Alicent gracefully made her way back inside the keep, not saying a word. He knew she was angry at him for inviting Ryder to their family supper; in her eyes it was bad enough for Daemon and Rhaenyra's family to attend them; but her upbringing would not allow her to make a scene in front of everyone else. She would make her displeasure known in private. But by all accounts Jacaerys and Ryder had become as close as brothers, having spent every waking moment together for the past four years and if that were true then Jacaerys would not feel comfortable suddenly being separte from him. And Viserys could see already that it was true. The closeness between them could have only one other meaning, but the silver haired King had a suspicion that romance was not the case. He was rather certain of it actually. Such certainty came from the fact that while Ryder had indeed spent almost the entire greeting staring shyly at the ground, there had been brief moments were his eyes would flick to Daeron, interest and, dare he say it, fascination shining in his brown eyes.

Viserys sighed. He would much rather spend time with his family, but the realm would not run itself. Viserys may not be the best King, but he felt it his duty to at least attend as many council meetings that he could. There was one scheduled for later that day. As he made his way up the steps to the Keep, resigned to several boring hours to preceed the uncomfortable ones that were sure to take place at supper, Viserys overheard a snippet of conversation between Jace and Ryder as they followed Rhaenyra and Daemon into the royal wing of the keep.

"See?" Jace was saying "I told you he'd like you," the boy was bragging, his tone made it clear.

Ryder seemed unconvinced "The Queen didn't though. Or Aemond, Aegon and Helaena,"

"They don't like me, Luke or Joff either. They're Hightowers, and so is Daeron. I'm sure Oldtown must teach you how to be a cunt," Daemon, it seemed, had been teaching his grandchildren curses. Viserys would have to talk to him about that.

He didn't hear Ryder's reply, as they had been led in an entirely different direction than that than which Viserys himself had to follow to reach the council chambers.

Once more, Viserys sighed, as he again pictured the tense meal he would soon be having. He wondered what it would take to bring his family together.

As it turned out, Viserys was mostly right about supper. Hours after the four dragonriders had arrived, as the sun was setting in the west, the family had gathered for their meal. Alicent was coldly polite and courteous to Rhaenyra and Daemon; and completely ignored the children. Aegon had no such restraints and was outright rude. Viserys found himself wanting to step in and admonish the boy several times, but refrained. Daemon could always take the insults as a compliment and then fire his own jape back, usually at Aegon's expense. Viserys guiltily admitted that he got some amusement out of that. Aemond just glared at Jace.

However, despite this, the supper actually managed to beat Viserys' expectations. Helaena had begged absence, wanting to stay with her young children and watch over them, which removed one person who would try and antagonize Rhaenyra; though it was the most mellow of his heir's siblings. Daeron, was were the real change could be seen though. In the past, he had tried to seat himself as far away from his sisters and her family, specifically Jace, much as his older brothers were now doing. Today though, he had rather willingly taken the seat next to Lucos, despite it being only one seat in between his and Jace's. Though he claimed it was because he was leaving a seat next to Aegon open for Helaena, should she decided to attend, Viserys felt as though there was more to it than that.

"When can I expect the arrival of my other grandchildren?" Viserys had been asking Rhaenyra when the incredible had happened.

"They left by ship the same day we did. It should be less than a week, should the winds be in their favour," Rhaenyra anwered. Luke, Joff and Aegon were sailing into King's Landing with Daemon's daughters, Baela and Rhaena, and the Sea Snake himself, Corlys Velaryon. The old admiral had not been happy to lose his prized ship, and one of his closest friends along with it. His rage mellowed slightly when Jacaerys returned to Dragonstone alive and relatively unharmed. Even so, Viserys almost pitied any pirates the man had caught in his waters for a good few months after that. Viserys own cousin, Rhaenys; Corlys' wife; was flying with the boat, to enure the children had a way to escape if another incident should happen.

"You're being paranoid," Daemon had told his wife, as she explained the situation to her father "It is highly unlikely that anything of the sort would happen again,"

"I would rather be paranoid than lose a child! How would you feel if Aegon, or Baela or Rhaena died because there was no dragon there to save them?" Rhaenyra defended, admirably. At the mention of losing his daughters, Daemon's entire resistance against having Rhaenys guard the boat had crumbled.

While this discussion was happened, Daeron had been nervously pushing food around his plate taking glances at the two boys on his right out of the corner of his eyes. Finally, Viserys observed his youngest take a deep breath before doing what nobody had though he would ever do.

"Jacaerys," he addressed his nephew, his voice neutral if a bit strained "I'm curious. What did you name your dragon?"

Viserys felt like crying out in triumph. Alicent stared disapprovingly at their youngest, who easily ignored it. Both Aegon and Aemond were visibly angry that their brother was addressing Jacaerys so cordially. Rhaenyra seemed uncertain about what to make of it, while Daemon; damn him; sat there smirking smugly, as though he knew something they didn't.

Jace looked just as taken back as anyone. He narrowed his eyes at Daeron and stared at him suspiciously. Ryder turned a pleading gaze on his friend though, and Viserys saw whatever retort had been building on his tongue disappear. Instead, Jace answered cautiously but equally amicably "Vermax. The name is supposed to be a mix of Vermithor and Syrax,"

Conversation, no matter how stiff and tense, flowed from there.

Viserys was beyond pleased that his wishes had finally seen fruition, though he was incredibly confused as to why Daeron had now decided to attempt to be friendly with Jace. That was until the King saw Daeron smile, and stutter and blush slightly when talking to Ryder. Ah, the plump man thought. It seemed Daeron returned the infatuation he'd suspected Ryder held for his youngest. His first instinct was to crush this attraction quickly. But then...Daeron was his third son, his fifth child. He already had six grandchildren and a brother; with two daughters of his own. Daeron not having any children would not be that great a loss, and Lucos was not even a Targaryen. As long as their...relationship was never exposed, then Viserys supposed he could ignore it. Especially if it managed to forge the friendship between Daeron and Jace that he'd hoped to create for so long.

As Daeron gave the dark haired lad a shy smile, Viserys allowed himself to smile. He had a feeling that he had just met the way to unite his family.


	3. Daeron I

128 AC

Daeron

It had been four years since Daeron had first met the enigmatic boy that was Lucos Ryder. Even now, after four whole years of what had quickly become close friendship, the young prince knew next to nothing about the other boy.

When Daeron had first seen him he had felt...interested. He didn't know how else to describe it. The second they met, Daeron had felt a need to get to know the other boy. But the boy was so close to Jacaerys. Daeron, only a few years before, had been unable to even tolerate the Velaryon boy. He'd seen him as arrogant and proud, and felt that he and his mother; Rhaenyra; were stealing his older brothers rightful crown. Not to mention the likelihood of the Velaryon boys being bastards. The fact that his father kept trying to force Daeron to spend time with Jacaerys through making them take lessons and training together had done nothing but make the two despise each other even more. He'd never regretted his attitude more than when he saw the brotherly adoration Lucos and Jace held for each other. So on that one day he'd chosen to be polite with his nephew, hoping that Jace would accept the offer of a truce, hoping that he would be able to spend time with the boy that had captivated his thoughts for that whole day.

He still wasn't entirely sure why he had tried so hard, why he desired to become friends with Lucos so much. The silver haired boy supposed it had something to do with the fact that Lucos had ridden a dragon at age six, something Daeron had thought impossible. Not even his brother Aemond or uncle Daemon had been riding at that age, and they were some of the most naturally talented riders Daeron had ever seen. Hearing the tale of his rescue first hand from Jacaerys had left Daeron a little amazed and a bit in awe of the shorter boy, something he sometimes felt a bit stupid about given that Daeron was the same age as Lucos. It seemed odd that he would admire someone his own age so much.

It wasn't as though his ability to ride Snowfyre was the only reason to look up to the stocky northern boy, though. Daeron felt as much when he failed to dodge Lucos' sword, resulting in a stinging blow landing on his ribs. Said blow knocked the wind out of him and was followed up by a similar sensation as Lucos blocked his clumsy counter attack and brought the blunted blade down of Daeron's wrist, sending the Prince's sword to the ground. Lucos finished the round when he hooked his foot behind Daeron's own and then sent a quick jab to Daeron's chest, which sent him sprawling to the hard floor where he lay, dazed.

"Enough," the kind voice of Ser Willis Fell rang out around the yard, some amusement in his tone.

Lucos' talent, they had quickly discovered, was not exclusive to dragon riding. He had a natural talent for swordplay that had greatly impressed many in the Red Keep, including the seven White Knights of the Kingsguard. According to uncle Daemon, Lucos had been skilled for his age when he first came to live at Dragonstone. That ability had only increased under the tutelage of the legendary Rogue Prince, an extremely skilled swordsman himself. When the King had first heard this, he'd barely hesitated before commanding that Lucos would take lessons from the Kingsguard alongside Jacaerys, Daeron and Lucerys, much to the disapproval of Daeron's mother. Where once this would have caused him to groan; and still did, for entirely different reasons; Daeron had been elated. Swordsmanship was something he himself was good at and would give them something to bond over. He quickly corrected his thinking.

Lucos was distinctly northern in nature. While he had the slightest trace of Essosi in his accent; which, to Daeron's disappointment, faded slightly with each passing year; and was a little darker in skin than his ancestors would have been, he still had the blood of the North in him, and was inherently broad and stocky. While Daeron was just over half a head taller than the dark haired boy, Lucos was nearly twice as broad as his lithe and wiry royal companion. Jace's height and build lay somewhere between them, as did Luke and Joff. Due to this, Lucos was a fair bit stronger than Daeron and though the Prince initially believed he would hold a speed advantage over Lucos, this was proven to not be the case. Lucos was scarily quick and incredibly sure footed, and much to Daeron's frustration seemed to have inherited the northern durability. He could take one hell of a hit and shrug it off like it was nothing. It reminded Daeron of Gregor Umber, who he'd seen fight in a tourney at Duskendale once. The hulking giant of a man had been run through with a massive greatsword by Alan Tarly's son and had kept fighting, going on to win the competition. Though he had died afterwards, Daeron's nine year old self had been amazed; and a little disgusted; that the man had defeated all of his opponents despite having his stomach torn open and his entrails hanging out.

As Daeron's vision finally stopped spinning, he became aware of clapping and cheering from the side. He pushed himself up and saw his eldest nephews rushing over to congratulate their friend on his eleventh consecutive victory over Daeron. He'd gotten closer to the pair; and Joffrey; ever since he'd started spending time with Lucos. It was inevitable really. What had surprised him was that they were nothing like he'd always thought. Jace was nowhere near as arrogant as he'd previously imagined, and had a sharp mind and keen intellect. The future King was incredibly charismatic and charming and in spite of the underlying tension that would likely always be there, Daeron had been unable to keep up his dislike of the boy. Aegon and Aemond had been outraged of course, especially when he had defended Luke against some of Aemond's slandering a few years ago. Daeron was just thankful that his sister had accepted his decision and had stopped her outward antagonism towards Rhaenyra.

As Jace and Luke gushed and praised and admired what sounded like every move Lucos had made, a small hand appeared in Daeron's vision. Following it, he found a grinning Joffrey Velaryon at the end of it. Grasping his nephew's hand he allowed the boy to pull him up, pushing off the ground with some strength so as to help the boy, who wouldn't have been able to pull Daeron up without any assistance.

"You were really good too, uncle," Joff said, smiling slightly. The youngest son of Laenor Velaryon was the shy and quiet one of the trio, which often led to people underestimating him. In truth he was just as brave, if not more so, than his older brothers.

"He was," Fell; their tutor for the day; acknowledged as he drew close. Luke and Jace quietened and their brown gazes narrowed in concentration, both eager to learn as much as they could. None of them had defeated Lucos in more than a year and all wanted to do so "But towards the end you got impatient and tried to take him head on. As I've told my Prince many times, you should never fight a stronger opponent head on. Use your speed and manoeuvrability to your advantage,"

"But my attacks weren't doing anything! I can't put enough power in my attack's if I have to focus on moving all the time," Daeron protested.

"Which brings me to my second point," Ser Willis told them, turning to Lucos "You abandoned your defence early on and focussed only on offense and because of that you took more hits than you should have. I know you northerners think you're invulnerable, but one day that attitude will get you killed. You can't protect someone else, if you can't protect yourself,"

Daeron knew what the knight meant by those final words, and by the way Lucos' eyes were now looking at the ground. The Prince's training was incredibly demanding as it was, but Lucos was always pushed so much further than they were. Many had found it strange, but it was being done by both Lucos' request and the King's orders. Daeron and Jace had been among those who'd figured it out first. Lucos was being groomed to become a member of the Kingsguard and eventually Lord Commander. It made sense. Lucos was skilled and was devotedly loyal to Jace already. He would make a great addition to the order. Daeron wasn't comfortable with it though. The times he and Jace had been forced to carry an exhausted Lucos back to his chambers, or sit with him as the excessive training made him throw up, was part of it. The other part was that Daeron felt like he was being punched in the gut every time it was mentioned, however subtly.

Willis smiled "But you're improving. All of you are. Keep at it, and you'll all be remembered as famous warrior's some day," Daeron smiled. Ser Willis was one of his favourite teachers. He was always kind to them and went easier on Lucos than the other knights did, especially Rickard Thorne. Daeron couldn't find words for how much he hated that man. It was, more often than not, Thorne's training that left Lucos in a sobbing or sick mess. Cruel and foul mouthed, the rumours around him did not paint the elderly knight in a good way. He had been one of the main suspects for Rolland Fell's poisoning twenty six years before when the Stormlord had served as King Jahaerys Master of Whisper's "Now, go put your arms and armour away and then back to keep. You've got lessons with Maester Orwyle soon,"

A few moments later saw Daeron and Lucos placing their tourney blades back onto the sword rack, and peeling their padded armour off. Jace and Luke, having done all this already, had bid them a quick farewell, before rushing back inside. None of them wanted to be late for the old Maester's lessons. He'd tell their mother's if they were and escaping a single lesson was not worth the scolding they'd get for it later. Instead of despairing that he now had to spend a few hours inside a stuffy room, studying heraldry or maps or old language's, Daeron was still grinning at the massive groan of disappointment that Lucos had given when Ser Willis had reminded them of their lessons. While the boy was already an excellent fighter with almost any weapon available; the Master at Arms had banned him from the archery range after the first few attempts with the longbow; and a talented rider on horse or dragon, academic's were not Lucos' element. While he already knew several language's, he struggled to keep all of the different house's and their sigils' and words straight in his head. History confused him; though Daeron loved learning about past wars and battles; and Daemon had quickly given up on teaching the boy strategy.

Daeron laughed as he recalled the day he, Lucos and Jace had been summoned to observe the King as he held court. Lucos' nose had been scrunched up in confusion as he tried to understand the political moves and subtleties of court. It had been amusing and Daeron had found the completely lost expression the shorter boy had been adorning when he looked at Jace and Daeron for guidance to have been cute.

"What are you laughing about?" Lucos asked as he packed his armour away.

"Just remembering how cute your confused face is," Daeron teased, not really thinking about what he was saying, and then laughed again at Lucos' grimace.

"Cute? I'm not cute! If anything I'm rugged and handsome," Lucos exclaimed in outrage. Daeron mentally agreed, before he paused for a moment as he realised he had just called his friend cute, and thought of him as handsome. Talking about another boy like that could get you killed if anyone else heard. A quick glance around showed they were alone though. After a moments thought, Daeron shrugged to himself. It was Lucos, he wouldn't tell anyone and Daeron could always play it off as a jape.

"Definitely cute," he grinned and Lucos growled and leapt at him, with a laughing Daeron barely ducking out of the way.

"I don't know when you're talking about anyway," Lucos huffed "Nothing can confuse me!"

"Politics can. You were so lost. Father must have thought it was a waste of time making you ever watch again," he laughed. It was a forced laugh though. He had seen the flash of pain in Lucos' eyes when the word 'father' was mentioned, just the same as always. Just the same as when the word 'mother' was mentioned. Eight years since Lucos had come to Westeros. Four years since Daeron had met him. Still they knew nothing about him, and they had long since learned to stop asking about his past. It just caused him to close himself off from everyone else.

Daeron gave him a comforting smile and began to leave the armoury.

"We were in Myr before I came here," Lucos said, his voice dull and Daeron stopped in his tracks

Daeron spun around and saw the pain in the boy's eyes was no longer a flash but a flood of grief "Lucos, you don't have to tell me..."

"I want to," Lucos stubbornly insisted "I have to...I need to tell someone," Their eyes met for a moment, and Daeron slowly nodded.

"My ancestor's, they'd left Westeros rather than be ruled by Aegon," Lucos began "They've been part of the Company of the Rose ever since,"

This, Daeron knew. He'd researched House Ryder after meeting Lucos. They had been King's once, ruling the region now known as the Rills before being defeated and subjugated by the Stark's many centuries ago. It had been hard to find information of what had happened since then. Daeron initially thought that the family must have risen in rebellion at some point and those left alive after defeat must have fled east. But then he'd come across records of a Sellsword company made up of men and women from the North who'd refused to kneel to King Aegon the Conqueror. The last of the Ryder's, he'd discovered after sending a raven to Lord Stark, had been among them.

"My grandfather was fighting in the disputed lands when he met grandmother. She was a Valyrian, that's why I can ride Snowfyre. My father was their youngest son and didn't want to be part of the Company. He grew up in Volantis instead and trained as a Smith. When grandmother died, Snowfyre went into a rage. He burned down half the city. My father managed to bond with him and calm him down, but he was forced to leave when he wouldn't kill him. He settled in Myr and his life was good for a time. He met my mother, fathered several children and became famous for the weapons and armour he made,"

"What happened?" Daeron asked. Lucos was sat of the floor now, his arms wrapped around his legs, which had been pulled close to his chest. Daeron lowered himself to the ground and upon seeing the unshed tears in his friends eyes, placed a comforting arm around Lucos' shoulder's. He was surprised when Lucos, who Daeron always admired for his strength, leaned into the touch. He couldn't really believe that of all people, it was him that Lucos was opening up to. Not Jace or Luke who he was much closer with. Not Daemon or Rhaenyra or anyone else that had raised him since he was six years old. It was him.

"The War for the Stepstones happened," Lucos said tonelessly. They were late for their lessons now, Daeron knew. But he'd take his punishment with pride. This was more important "Suddenly the Myrish weren't happy with a dragon rider living in their city. But at that time, my grandfather was leader of the Company, and they had a close alliance with Braavos. Father was protected.

"But then, months before I saved Jace's life, my grandfather died fighting a war against Astapor. Without him, the alliance fell apart within a few months. Suddenly....we weren't safe," Lucos took a deep breath and some tears escaped. He curled up further, and buried his face into Daeron's chest "We tried to leave before anything happened but our guards turned on us. The Myrish soldiers came for us; only I escaped,"

Lucos was fully crying now, and Daeron sucked in a sharp breath. He knew his friend must have seen it happen, there was no way he couldn't have if he escaped on his father's dragon. "Lucos..."

"My parents were killed, but not before they raped my mother. My three brothers...my twin sister..."

Daeron swallowed "I'm so sorry," he whispered, hugging Lucos closer.

They stayed like that for some time. Daeron didn't know how long, nor did he care. After a while, Lucos managed to calm himself down. "I'm sorry," he said "I shouldn't have..."

"It's okay," their faces were only inches apart and their eyes met.

"You said I was cute?"

"I meant handsome," he pressed his lips to Lucos'.


	4. Viserys II

129 AC

Viserys

The King of Westeros sighed and rubbed his eyes in exhaustion as he sat through another small council meeting. In recent months he had begun tiring even quicker than he had before and it took considerable effort on Viserys part to do so much as climb the steps to the Iron Throne. He was dying. Viserys knew it wouldn't be long until he met the Stranger.

His reign had been a good one. Twenty six years of peace and prosperity, the only conflict that had been seen was Daemon's war for the Stepstones and the subsequent fighting against Dorne and the Triarchy of Lys, Myr and Tyrosh. The only house's who actually took part in that war though were the house's of the Narrow Sea like his Velaryon cousins, the Celtigar's and the Bar Emmon's. The Vale had, of course, had it's never ending problems with the Mountain Clans, the Starks had been hit by small Wildling parties once or twice and the Marcher Lords had always had to repel Dornish raiders ever so often. But overall, his realm had enjoyed two and a half decades of peace under his rule, to add to the fifty five his grandfather gave them. Such peace had not gone to waste. The small debt owed to the Iron Bank from the Faith Militant Wars had been paid off years ago, and the Crown's treasury was overflowing with gold in spite of the lavish feasts and tournaments he liked to throw when they could spare the expense. By all acounts it was a similar story everywhere.

He only wished his own family had been as prosperous as the realm. Oh it was wide spread to be sure. His line was secure for centuries to come, what with three sons and five daughters, along with eight grandchildren and two niece's. But the family was divided still, despite his best efforts. Lucos Ryder had been a miracle sent by the gods, but his presence had only shifted the loyalties of Viserys' youngest son. Aegon and Aemond still hated Rhaenyra and her children and now that hate extended to Daeron too. Blood, it seemed, wasn't that important to them; they thought only of their own ambitions. Truly, their actions only served to convince Viserys further that Rhaenyra would be the better ruler. While she may not be the most gentle or kind hearted person in the world, she at least knew how to rule. Aegon had no such talent and while Aemond could be great at ruling during wartime, he would be crushed by politics in peacetime, not helped by his cruel streak. It would be Maegor all over again.

The plump king coughed into a handkerchief, grimacing a bit at the blood that dotted the pale white cloth. He quickly tucked it away, out of sight of his Councillor's. He was dying and he feared what would become of his family after his death. Shaking away such thought's, Viserys quickly focused on the report being given by his Master of Laws. Jasper Wylde was not his first choice for the position he had to say. The sour looking man was dreadfully dull, with a low monotone voice that was awfully good at sending people to sleep. He was enthusiastic in his work, Viserys knew, even if he didn't sound it. Too enthusiastic, given that the man oft got caught up in his reports and forgot to bathe properly leaving his dark hair lank and his body to be covered in sickeningly rich perfumes to hide his odor. Still, he was the man most capable for the job out of all those Viserys had seen. Pausing, the King amended that thought. The best after Daemon, but Viserys knew his younger brother was too wild and free to be happy as Master of Laws and he refused to put him back on the council anyway, after the events that led to his exile.

It was at times like these that Viserys wished Lyonel Strong were still alive. The late Lord of Harrenhal had been Viserys' third Master of Laws, replacing Daemon upon the prince's exile. He had been quick witted and always had a jape ready on his tongue; ones he'd never failed to amuse Viserys with; but he could turn stone faced and cold in the blink of an eye when needed and was always ruthlessly efficient at his job. It was those traits that saw him elevated to Hand of the King after Otto Hightower had been fired in 109 AC. Lyonel had unfortunately died in a fire at his keep while managing his affairs there, along with his oldest son, Harwin. He wondered who had started that fire, and if he might be able to repay them in kind before his own death. Viserys knew that many suspected him, but he knew that he had done no such thing nor ordered it done. Rumored grandfather to Rhaenyra's children or not, Viserys had enjoyed having Lyonel as his Hand and would never have wasted such talent needlessly.

Personally, Viserys had his suspicions about Larys Strong being behind the fire, perhaps on the orders of Daemon or even Rhaenyra herself. Lyonel's second son was regrettably clubfooted, and as such hadn't many prospects for him. The only viable option had been to become a maester. That had changed though when he became Lord of Harrenhal, one of if not the most powerful seat in the Riverlands, and later Master of Whispers. Looking at the dark haired young man, Viserys felt a chill go down his spine. Strong was one of the people Viserys feared the most. The brown eyed spymaster was cold and cunning. He seemed to be able to tell you anything about anything, and when his unnatural eyes met yours, it felt as though he knew all of your secrets. Yes, Viserys concluded, that man would be more than willing to kill his father and brother.

Wylde was still prattling on about the disturbance's the city watch had dealt with in the city since the last meeting "...and last night Ser Gwayne Hightower and his men had to break up a fight on the street of silk between some of Lord Rosby's men and Lord Darklyn's,"

Viserys suppressed a groan. Two of the most powerful lords directly sworn to him had both come to court in the previous week to settle a dispute. Apparently there was a small holdfast just on the edge of Rosby land who's last Lord had died without issue. Rosby claimed that since the holdfast was in his land, it should fall to him to grant it to whoever he pleased however Darklyn had sent a garrison of men to secure the keep, claiming that the last lord's grandmother was a Darklyn, giving him the best blood claim on the land. In all honesty, the keep was a simple wooden hall atop a hill with a palisade wall around it and a small village. This wasn't really a matter of value, but one of pride. Each Lord had arrived in the past few days with several dozen men each to petition to the King.

And now those men are fighting each other.

"Blades were drawn and one Darklyn was killed and another injured along with two Rosby's. One member of the City Watch was injured subduing the fighters," Wylde intoned, glancing at them all "With winter's arrival many peasants have entered the city for refuge. The City Watch cannot deal with the amount of people currently in the city; they need more men,"

"More men requires more rations, more armour, more weapons and more pay," Viserys reminded him, his voice sounding weak even to his own ears "How many more men does Commander Largent request?" He knew Luthor Largent, the man had been a close companion of Rhaenyra during their childhood. He was only a few years older than Viserys' daughter.

Wylde blinked "Not Commander Largent, your grace, he insists that his men can handle the unrest. Ser Gwayne and the Queen made the request for a thousand more men to compliment the current fifteen hundred, your grace,"

Viserys scowled. Gwayne Hightower was a skilled fighter there was no doubt but the man had no notion of strategy, economics or politics. He seemed to believe he could overwhelm the criminals with numbers and damn the expense's. He was only Largent's second in command because of Alicent's influence. As for Alicent...Viserys had loved her once. Perhaps not as much as he had doted upon his first wife, his beautiful Aemma, but he had loved her. He had ignored how she treated his heir and grandchildren. She was angry that her son was not to be king, he understood. Her treatment of Daeron though, after he became involved with Ryder; not that she knew that, he didn't think; and started to defend his nephews from Aegon and Aemond and the rumors surrounding Harwin Strong and Laenor Velaryon, was inexcusable. She had sent the boy to Oldtown, to squire for her cousin Lord Ormund. She claimed it to be a reward for winning some squires tourney some ten months ago, but the whole court knew it to be a punishment.

Turning to the oldest man there, Viserys asked "Would our treasury be able to support such an expense, Lord Lyman?"

Lyman Beesbury was the oldest man in the room by a good two decades at least. A man of ninety years old, he was completely bald now save for a few thin, willowy strips of white hair that adorned his temple's. He was forced to walk hunched over a cane, and his voice little more than a croak. Beesbury was not only the oldest man in the room but had used it more than any other currently alive, perhaps even ever. He had become Master of Coin for King Jahaerys in 60 AC after the death of 'old' Tyran Reyne. Reyne had been in his sixty-fifth year when he died. Lyman had been a young man of two and twenty namedays and had served until Jahaerys' death and then stayed on the council long enough to see Viserys comfortable in his throne, before quietly requesting permission to return home. After forty four years of devotedly loyal and able service, Viserys had no right to refuse. The old man deserved to die in his own home, in his own bed surrounded by his family. Yet after fifteen years and three failures of replacements, Viserys had been forced to beg for the man to return. Lord Lyman had done so without question, and had since completed a fifth decade of serving in his position.

"It can, your grace," Lord Lyman croaked, giving the answer Viserys already knew "Taxes have all been met, trade has been better than we predicted; Braavos and Pentos was quite eager to acquire arms and armour, of which our own Blacksmith's make in finer quality than the Free Cities, as well as a large export of grain and other foods; and as long as now feast's are held until winter has passed, we should suffer no shortage of food, exempting us from having to buy import more. Even with the cost of a thousand more City Watch, we should be making profit,"

Viserys nodded, and stroked his chin thoughtfully "Tell Ser Luthor he is to recruit five hundred more men to help him keep the peace,"

Wylde flinched slightly, no doubt imagining Alicent's anger when she learned that she had been denied half the men she requested "I will send a page at once, sire. Hayford!" he barked, the first change from his monotone he had displayed since entering the room, and the twelve year old Jaime Hayford, serving as a page and cup bearer for the council, rushed over. Wylde hastily scribbled down the King's instructions on a sheet of parchment before sealing it using the King's seal, before passing it to the boy "Take this to Lord Commander Luthor Largent at the City Watch barracks,"

The boy nodded and with a mumbled 'Yes my Lord' he was gone.

"What a pity; it seems we are now missing a cup bearer," the arrogant and eloquent voice of Tyland Lannister drifted across the table, as the blonde leaned back on his chair and sipped his Arbor Gold. The man was dressed in rich red and gold colored clothes, complete with knee high black leather boots trimmed with gold fabric. His long hair was well below shoulder length and the golden locks glimmered in the light shining in through the window behind him, while his cheeks were perfectly clean shaven.

Looking at the man, one wouldn't assume he would be capable for the role of Master of Ships. He simply didn't look the part. But then appearance's could be deceiving, as Viserys well knew. While Tyland had never led a fleet in battle, he had made several adjustments to the trade ships at Lannisport that enabled extra space for storage and the brother of Lord Lannister had even designed his own complex system to make such storage more efficient. These adjustments allowed them to export a larger quantity of goods and supplies from Lannisport, and when he heard about it Viserys had made note. As such, when Garth Hightower died nine years previously, it was Tyland Lannister that Viserys had given the seat too, amid protests from his other advisers. He'd ignored them and was glad he had; Tyland had almost doubled the amount of ships they could have in dock at any time and made similar improvements on the King's Landing fleet as he had on the Lannisport ships, both of which benefited them in terms of trade.

That didn't mean that Tyland's attitude didn't infuriate Viserys at times.

"I'm sure you can manage to pour your own wine, Lord Tyland, you are, after all, a grown man and the pitcher is within your reach. Unless it is not cup bearing you want the boy for?" Grand Maester Orwyle was remarkably good at putting men like Tyland Lannister back in their places. His words were usually quite vicious and biting. In his robes and chains, with spotted hands and the balding head, he did not look intimidating. He could verbally spar with the best, though and oft won the debates he entered.

Lannister went red at the insinuation. His teeth ground together and his hand tightened around his cup. A silence fell over them as they sat in the aftermath of Lannister's humiliation.

Viserys coughed again and once more hid the evidence of his illness in his by this point stained handkerchief. He looked around, Wylde had been the last to have any issue's to raise. Plans had been made and any important information had been delivered and he had either already responded or would do so later, depending on urgency. With that in mind, the King rose from his seat at the head of the table, trying to speak as clearly as he could "My Lords, you have your task's. If we have no other business for the day, my Lords, I'm afraid must beg my leave,"

As though his word were some sort of prompt, all of the table's occupants began to rise.

Viserys could feel the eyes of his Hand on him as the men stood and gathered their reports and papers. He had known the man on his right had been watching him for the whole meeting, most specifically when he coughed.

Otto Hightower was Viserys good-father, the father of Alicent and the uncle of Lord Ormund. He was one of the older men in the room too, with his steel grey hair and thin frame. While he may not be someone Viserys would like as a person; there was a reason he'd been fired from his post once before; he was good at his job. He was greedy, manipulative and ambitious, there was no doubting that and while that made him someone Viserys felt uncomfortable being around, it also made him an ideal candidate for being the Hand of the King.

The other ideal trait was that he knew when to keep his mouth shut. Hightower mentioned nothing about the blood he'd been coughing up.

Leaving the council room, Viserys made his way back across to his personal chambers, flanked on either side by one of his white knights. It was Ser Criston and Ser Arryk today. Both capable and loyal knights; he knew they could not save him from death now, though. Upon reaching his chambers, he nearly growled in frustration when he caught sight of who was waiting for him. There stood his wife, beautiful as ever, with her two oldest sons standing around her. Ever since Aegon's birth, he had been pressured to name the boy his heir, and everytime they asked he always refused. He would do the same today, of course, but he would be grateful for the opportunity to just go to sleep. He felt so tired and heavy.

It was always a risk going to sleep, now, Viserys knew. He might simply not wake up. Those thought's led him to wish his daughter were here, his brother and youngest son too along with the rest of his family. But Rhaenyra and her family were on Dragonstone, waiting for Rhaenyra to give birth to a sixth child that Viserys knew Rhaenyra hoped was a girl. Her husband, children and cousins were with her. Daeron was stuck in Oldtown. Viserys could order them to come to him, he knew, but to do so without reason would arouse suspicion. Somehow, though, he could not bring himself to reveal his health problems to his family. Perhaps he still hadn't accepted it after all; he still wanted to meet his newest grandchild, see his descendants grow up, be there when his children finally make peace as he still believed they would.

Sighing dejectedly, Viserys prepared himself to reject their demands no matter reason they threw at him. It was always the same anyway; Rhaenyra is a woman, Rhaenyra is Maegor with teats, the Velaryon boys are bastards (he tended to grow wroth then and order them out). It wouldn't sway him this time.

Rhaenyra was his heir. She and then Jace after her would sit the Iron Throne. No matter what Alicent tried to do to stop her.


	5. Criston I

129 AC

Criston

So it finally happened, mused Ser Criston Cole, the sable haired Lord Commander of King Viserys' Kingsguard.

King Viserys health had been declining for months now. That is to say, declining more quickly than it had been previously. The King had been in failing health for many years but one would have to be a lackwitted fool not to have noticed how fast his condition worsened in recent months. His death had not been unexpected to those who were in close proximity to him on a regular basis, such as the Small Council, the Kingsguard and his family. They had all been waiting with baited breath for the moment when Viserys of House Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm would breathe his last.

That moment had finally come.

After an exceedingly tiresome meeting of the Small Council the day before, the King had been forced to once more listen to Alicent's complaints and protest's that Viserys should name Aegon his heir, and as usual the hot tempered Aegon and Aemond had been there to support her. It was a common occurrence, but no less annoying for that. He knew he should be thankful, though, that the King had ordered Ser Steffon to keep the trio away from the Small Council chambers. Had they attended the meeting and brought the issue up there, the argument would have been even longer due to the fact that most of the council members would have supported her. In truth Criston agreed with his King that Rhaenyra would make the better ruler, loathe though he was to admit it. The lad was a fool; he sat his dragon well enough, though nowhere near as naturally as Aemond, Daemon or Ryder did, but his swordwork was average at best and sloppy at worst despite Criston's best efforts. But whenever he was drawn into the debates, as he had been the day before, he spoke in support of Aegon and Alicent. Not only was it part of his people's customs that a male heir inherited before a female, and that it would be an insult to a great dynasty to allow some Strong bastard to sit the throne, but Rhaenyra had spurned him years before. He'd offered her everything; his body, his honour, his love; and she'd thrown it back in his face to marry the sword-swallowing sea horse. Any love he had for her died that day.

Following the exhausting argument, the King had withdrawn to his bedchambers, immediately collapsing onto his bed as fatigue caught up with him. Alicent had been sent away, and was staying in one of the spare, luxurious chambers next to her father's in the Tower of the Hand for the night. As he'd had the job of guarding the King during the day, Criston had known he would soon be relieved by one of his sworn brothers who would guard the King's door all night. As it was, Criston barely had to wait before Ser Rickard had arrived and silent took Criston's place, his face as unmoving as a stone. With that done, Criston had made his rounds of the Red Keep, checking up on the various Hightower and Targaryen men-at-arms that guarded the keep, before making his way back to his room in the White Sword tower, where he had quickly unfastened his armour and undressed. Though Criston was perfectly healthy and the peak of physical fitness, the day had been draining even for him and it was rather late already. He'd gratefully climbed into his bed in the much larger Lord Commander's quarters and tried to the pounding headache he had.

He felt like he'd barely been asleep for seconds when he was awoken to a frantic pounding on the door. Groaning as his stiff back cracked as he stood, the renowned knight made his way over to the door, glancing out the window as he did so. It was light, but barely so. The sky was a dull grey colour and some stars could still be seen here and there, the sun casting an orange glow over the city as it began it's ascent over the horizon. Very early morning then, meaning Criston had likely only gotten a few hours sleep. Growling to himself mentally, Criston pulled a robe on and yanked open his door with rather a bit more force than necessary, glaring at the Hayford boy who had woken him at such an ungodly hour.

"Yes?" he asked gruffly, not caring for the skittish lad's flinch.

"Ser, the Queen summons you to the royal chamber," he spoke hastily "It's the King..."

At the boy's words, something sparked in the Lord Commander's mind. He had been summoned him to the royal chamber for an issue about the King...but the King himself, who's authority surpassed all, had not been the one to summon him. The Queen had.

As quick as he could, Criston dressed, not caring for his armour or any of his nicer clothes. Within moments Criston was running after the boy, clad only is his breeches and a loose, plain white shirt, running as fast he could while still trying to fasten his sword belt around his waist. He was sure they made quite a sight for the courtiers and servants they passed.

It didn't take long to reach the King's chambers. Ser Rickard was still standing outside. The old man's body was unmoving, his sword hand gently resting on the pommel of his blade, the other lightly gripping the top of the sheath, ready to draw it in an instant. Despite being in his sixty-eighth year; an age that showed in the complete lack of colour in his hair and the prominent wrinkles that lay on his face; Criston knew that the older man was one of the most capable members of the Kingsguard, and that his broad frame still held surprising strength. Even after spending the whole night standing outside the King's door, Thorne showed no tiredness in his features. He merely nodded respectfully to his commander, shifted slightly to the side and tilted his head to allow Criston and the boy inside. He was the oldest knight currently serving on the Kingsguard and, if Criston remembered the White Book correctly, he'd been, at the time of his appointment, the oldest to ever gain the White Cloak. Seven and Thirty at the time, Thorne had spent his childhood squiring for some Knight from the Riverlands before returning home to his family's keep as a knight when he reached his seventeenth nameday to serve his elder brother. Half a decade passed and Thorne left for the east, where he became a sellsword. Only two years before returning to Westeros, Rickard fought in the disputed lands alongside the Lyseni forces and was there to see the formation of the Triarchy. Upon his return in 98 AC, he competed in and won the melee and joust of a tourney at Bronzegate and repeated it at the Twins only half a year later. When Ser Osmund Massey died later that year, King Jahaerys first choice to replace him had been Ser Rickard, to his council's disgust.

Criston could understand their resistance the Old King met in that decision. While Criston held no small amount of respect for the man, he despised being around him. He had a good control over his temper, but once it was set off it was hard to contain it and while he held his own sort of honour, the man cruel, harsh and ruthless. If it wasn't for his exceptional skill, he wouldn't deserve his cloak.

Entering the room, Criston found the Queen sitting on the edge of her husband's bed, holding his limp and pale looking hand in her own. Criston couldn't help but think she still looked beautiful even as she sat there in a rather plain, dark green gown. There were some tear tracks on her face and her eyes were puffy and red rimmed, but she held her composure as she looked from the King to the Lord Commander. Her brother stood beside her, gently rubbing her back in comfort. Like the Lord Commander and the Queen, Gwayne Hightower had clearly came in a hurry. His boots were not done properly, the breeches were clearly not his best and a brown leather coat was all he wore above the waist. Maester Orwyle had clearly been up late and up early, much like Criston. From his position near the door he could see that the Grand Maester had a tired droop to his shoulders and dark circles under his eyes.

The King himself lay on the large bed, his skin looked far too pale and wax like. There was no rise and fall of his chest and Criston could easily see that he wasn't breathing. Criston sighed and closed the door behind him, before moving further into the room. Orwyle, who had been kneeling next to the bed and examining the King's body, unsteadily pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his bones audibly creaked.

"It was natural," Orwyle told them "Of that I am fairly sure. There are no physical injuries and no trace of any poison that I know of. I will need a closer analysis to make sure, but it seems as though he simply died in his sleep," the man sighed and began to make his way to the door "I will need to send a raven to Dragonstone. As the heir, Princess Rhaenyra will need to be informed of her father passing,"

He started toward the door, only to stop in his tracks as a firm voice called out "No,"

He stared, confused and a little shocked, at the Queen "No? What do you mean, your grace?"

"I mean exactly what I said. No. Do not send a raven to Rhaenyra," Alicent spoke calmly, but there was a shakiness in her voice that she couldn't hide "By all the laws of Gods and Men, a son inherits before a daughter. Aegon is the rightful King and it is Aegon we shall crown,"

"His grace named Princess Rhaenyra as his chosen heir. The Lords of the realm swore to serve her," the old Maester argued, though there was a glint in his eyes. Criston struggled to identify it. He was a soldier, not a politician. He thought it might be pride, or perhaps relief or some odd mixture. It hit the knight that Orwyle, despite his words, agreed with Alicent. He was encouraging her.

"The Lords of the realm abide by the same laws we do; they will accept this. If not...if it comes to war, then it is one Rhaenyra and her bastards shall rue!" there was a fire in her eyes now, her words passionate and as she spoke she grew more and more confident "Jason and Tyland Lannister have always been friends of mine, and Grover Tully has always been very outspoken in his distaste for Rhaenyra. The Reach will stand by us as well, while the North and Iron Islands will do as they always have: nothing. The Lords of the Crownlands would not dare stand against us, not when we have Sunfyre, Dreamfyre and Vhagar all here in the city. What will Rhaenyra have? A few islands in the middle of the bay and the Vale; a region whose army is blocked in it's own land by the ice filled valley's that keep them so safe,"

"They have more dragons," Gwayne pointed out

"Only three that could challenge any of our own, and from what I hear Rhaenyra will not be riding any time soon," Alicent declared "The Strong bastards and their dragons would stand no chance against Vhagar,"

It was true, Criston realized. Aemond's dragon was the largest dragon alive, while Rhaenyra's brood flew small things that would be barely an annoyance to the huge beast.

Criston found himself nodding "With the Redwyne and Lannister fleet combined with whatever we have here at King's Landing we might be able to defeat the Velaryon fleet. That's where her strength will be. On land she won't have a chance," he told them.

Alicent clasped her hands in front of her, and her eyes showed that she was deep in thought "Can Ser Rickard be trusted with this?" she asked eventually

Criston thought for a few moments. The Thorne's had been one of the last house's to surrender to Aegon and the hardest to put down. They weren't known for their loyalty to the crown; Lord Thorne was an avid supporter of the Faith Militant during their wars against Maegor; and given a choice between two branches of the family, they would side with the faction that aligned most with their views. Given that Ser Rickard was an Andal and had some respect for the Seven, Criston thought he knew which side Thorne would fall on.

"I believe he can," Criston said aloud "If he can't...then I'm ready," he placed his hand on his sword. He would have preferred his morningstar, but the sword would do.

Alicent nodded sharply "Good. Ser Rickard! Enter!"

The door opened and the stone faced man entered the room, footsteps being much quieter than they had any right to be in his plated boots.

"Yes, my Queen?" he inquired impassively.

"I need you to go and find my sons, bring them to the Small Council chambers," Alicent told him and looked almost surprised when he simply nodded and left to do as he was bid "Maester, gather the Small Council. Gwayne, gather the Hightower men and secure the city. We cannot have news of this escape, not any of it; Viserys death or what we plan to do,"

When both men had left to complete their tasks, Criston was left alone with the grieving Queen. After a few moments of unbearable silence, Criston's resolve broke.

"And my instructions, your grace?" he asked

"Return to your quarters and don your armour. I will need your support on the council. I will meet you there. I simply...need a moment,"

He watched as she composed herself, gently dabbing at her eyes with a small handkerchief before placing a soft kiss to her husband's forehead. Shortly after, Criston found himself back in the White Sword Tower dressing properly this time. He pulled on his chain mail shirt, his doublet and his boiled leather jerkin, before fitting his gleaming white Kingsguard armour over the top and clasping the White Cloak on. Once more time passed in a blur; he wondered whether they were truly doing this. He knew that despite Alicent's confidence Rhaenyra would not bend. She would not allow such an insult to pass. There would be war, but as the Queen had rightly pointed out Aegon would undoubtedly have more support. He was the male heir after all, and Rhaenyra a female with bastard children for heirs. Her mother's family might fight for her and the Velaryon's surely would too. But no one else.

Before long he found himself standing in the Small Council chamber. The councilor's were filing in, one at a time. Gwayne, though not a member of the council was also stood off to the side of the table, much like Ser Rickard, Ser Arryk Cargyll; the youngest member of the seven, at the moment; Ser Steffon Darklyn and himself were. Aegon was sitting in the seat that Viserys once sat in, at the head of the table, his face a picture of shock and disbelief, his mother's supportive hand on his shoulder as she stood behind him. Aemond was sitting to Aegon's immediate left, where Beesbury usually sat. Otto Hightower was directly across from the young Prince, his grandson, looking decidedly uncomfortable whenever the sapphire eye passed over him. The Hand of the King had been the first council member to arrive, aside from Orwyle who had claimed his usual seat the the foot of the table, opposite the new King.

Surprisingly it had been Lannister that arrived next. The man had strolled in casually, his smug grin adorning his lips as it always did, and looked disappointed to see that he wasn't almost late. His arrogant expression vanished though and he seemed genuinely surprised to see Aegon sitting in the King's chair. It was gone a moment later as that same sly grin came back, a little smaller and more infuriating than ever, but there once more as realization crossed the man's sharp, pointed features. He dropped heavily into the seat on Aemond's left and taking on a slouched and relaxed position, sprawled in his chair almost lazily and proceeded to throw his feet up on the table and began to happily whistle "The Bear and the Maiden Fair", knowing that it would grate on Criston as the blonde simply loved to do. He took no notice that Aegon was near snarling at him for daring to smile at such a time, nor the distasteful sneer's Aemond was giving him. Or, Criston acknowledged mayhaps he did notice, and just doesn't care.

The Master of Laws, Lord Jasper, arrived next and silently took the offered seat next to Lannister. Predictably, Wylde looked the least tired off all of them. He hadn't even slept, most like. Caught up in his reports and plans, Wylde barely took the time to eat, sleep or bathe. The evidence was clear. He looked like a scarecrow with lank, greasy hair that had been covered in too much Essosi perfume. Lannister, of course, looked immaculate too, but the man had likely spent a long time getting ready both because he simply was that self absorbed and because he wanted to be annoyingly late.

Clubfoot Strong came shortly behind Wylde, limping horribly to the chair on the end of the right side of the table. Criston barely repressed a sneer and a grimace at the man. His deformity was, to Criston, rather gruesome and he wasn't very fond of the man's late brother Harwin Breakbones; or Brokenbones as some had called him after Criston shattered many of his bones in a tourney that celebrated Rhaenyra's wedding to Laenor Velaryon. The last seat, in between Ser Otto and Lord Larys, was occupied by the ancient Master of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury, a few moments later. Personally, Criston felt as though the man had served much longer than he should have. Perhaps even lived longer than he should have. Criston thought back to his childhood friend Selwyn Dondarrion, who'd died only eleven namedays old. It hardly seemed fair to him that Selwyn had gotten so little time while Beesbury had so much.

When the Small Council was assembled, Aegon took a breath before beginning "My Lords, I'm sure you're wondering why you've been gathered here...why I'm sitting in my father's seat," he trembled slightly, the new king was still quite young at two and twenty, and was in truth unready to rule "It is my regret to inform you that...that my father is..."

He trailed off and pain and grief filled his eyes. Alicent stepped forward "My husband, King Viserys, is dead," she let the news settle for a moment before she began "As I'm sure you are all aware, my husband has named Princess Rhaenyra his chosen heir. However; the law is clear. A daughter cannot inherit before a son. By right of birth and blood, Aegon is the true King. After some discussion, my son has decided to claim what is rightfully his. We have called you here so you may give your oaths of fealty,"

Discussion was a poor word to describe the most vexing conversation of Criston's life. Aegon had been reluctant at first. He'd wanted the throne, yes. He certainly hated Rhaenyra, of course he did, a blind man could see that. Yet when he had the chance he'd very nearly turned it down, arguing that his father had chosen Rhaenyra. That it wouldn't be right to steal it from her, whether she deserved it or not. It had taken Alicent, Aemond and Criston the better part of an hour to convince him, eventually having to bring up the fact that Rhaenyra would surely kill Aegon, Aemond and Daeron as well as both of Aegon's sons; she wouldn't abide having such a threat running around; before he'd accepted their point. The insinuation that Queen Rhaenyra would bring harm to his children had convinced him, especially as he couldn't disprove it in any way.

Surprisingly, the first words to be uttered came not from Tyland Lannister, Otto Hightower or Jasper Wylde. Instead, a shocked and incredulous cry of "What?" was the first response. Sure enough, Criston saw as he looked in disbelief, feeble old Lord Lyman was staring at the Queen and her sons with an expression of pure disbelief "Surely you jape, your grace. Crowning Aegon...it is madness. It is treason! King Viserys chosen heir is Princess Rhaenyra. The throne is hers by right!" His voice, croaked and weak, carried a surprising passion and strength.

"Don't be a fool, Lyman," Hightower scolded, as though speaking to a child, and not to a man thirty years his senior "Both the Faith and the laws of man are clear on this; the first son is rightfully the heir to the Throne,"

"We swore oaths of loyalty to Rhaenyra! All of us!" Beesbury shouted "We sword a vow to support her and serve her!"

"Is it worth keeping an oath like that even if it means putting my bastard nephew on the throne?" Strong asked, his voice soft and quiet "And please don't try to argue, my Lord. I think I know my brother's own face when I see it. Believe me; they are Harwin's,"

Beesbury blustered in fury "That hasn't been proven. Even if it were, Rhaenyra has two trueborn sons by Daemon. Unless you intend to claim they are bastards too?"

"A whore like Rhaenyra," Alicent mused "One never knows,"

Criston swore he saw Beesbury's hand flex for the small dagger he kept on his belt.

"Calm down, Lyman," Lannister mocked "We cannot have a man of your age get too angry; it's as like as not to kill you,"

"At least I would die with my honour intact! Though, I suppose you wouldn't know anything about honour, nor loyalty. Just like the rest of these traitors; a pack of honorless cowards!"

Criston saw the anger in Alicent's eye. The way Aegon's hand clenched the arms of his chair. The way Aemond's jaw tightened. It was Aegon who spoke "My father named Rhaenyra his heir, in clear contrast to the laws that govern the Faith, in contrast to centuries old Andal custom. He went against the very principle that made him King in the first place! The throne is mine by right. I am the rightful King; my sister will either learn that and bend the knee or die a traitor's death," his voice was cold as ice and hard as steel, and for a moment Criston saw Daemon in him.

"I will have no part in it," Beesbury boldly declared, and Criston decided that he'd said enough "You won't win this, boy, and you'll all burn in seven..."

In a few quick steps, Criston was behind the avaricious old skeleton. In a brutally quick and easy movement, Criston grabbed the man under the chin with his left hand, while his right swiftly drew his dirk and drew it ruthlessly across the old man's throat. With a single swipe, Beesbury's words were lost in a gargle of blood as the crimson liquid that kept the man alive sprayed across the table. The first spray of blood painted the table top red, but no small amount coated Aemond and Lannister. The former barely even blinked, and just watched dispassionately as Beesbury's body slumped forward. The old man gasped a few times, the blood flowing freely out of his throat and pooling around him on the table. Lannister on the other hand, looked rather disgusted at the blood that was staining his rich and expensive clothes.

Aegon, Criston noticed, had a small sneer adorning his features as he gazed at the body, while Hightower had jumped in shock and shuffled as far from the body as possible. Strong, similar to Aemond, didn't even blink. Orwyle grimaced a little, and Wylde sighed despondently. Looking at his brothers, Criston tried to gauge their reactions to the news and his actions. Thorne hadn't moved an inch while Cargyll was giving the now dead Lord of Honeyholt a look of pity. Darklyn looked rather like he didn't want to be here, though, which sparked Criston's interest. He wouldn't mind having to kill Darklyn though it would be a waste of a good swordsman. Looking closer, Criston observed that Darklyn showed no hostility to the rest of the council. He was shifting uncomfortably and kept looking at the dead Master of Coin. Of course, Criston realized and allowed himself to relax a little. Darklyn was the longest serving knight in the room. He had known Lyman Beesbury a lot better than Criston, Arryk or Rickard did. He didn't like seeing his old friend die. Criston could live with Darklyn hating him. All Criston cared about was that the man did not have sympathy's for Rhaenyra.

"A pity," Alicent said disdainfully "He was skilled at his job, despite his age. He would have been useful,"

"It would seem we need a new Master of Coin," Aegon hummed thoughtfully, before turning to his Master of Ships "I believe you will be more than capable of managing the position, Lord Tyland,"

Tyland smirked menacingly "A lifetime of managing my brother's outrageous wealth will surely help me along, your grace. I do believe I have the experience you need,"

"Whatever else he was Lord Lyman was a good record keeper. I'm sure he has other copies of those," Hightower said, looking slightly green as he nodded towards the ruined, blood covered papers Lyman had collapsed on "But that does leave us without a Master of Ships, which I'm sure we'll need if Rhaenyra decided to oppose us,"

Aemond grinned. It reminded Criston of a dragon, unsurprisingly "We have that solved,"

"We need the Redwyne fleet to fight the Velaryon's," Aegon explained, not that he need too. That was common knowledge "My mother assures me Desmond Redwyne will declare for us, however offering him the position on the council will be an irresistible offer. Grand Maester, prepare a raven to Lord Redwyne offering him the post of Master of Ships in return for his support against Rhaenyra,"

"It will be done, your grace,"

"A good strategy, your grace. The combination of the Lannister fleet, the Redwyne fleet and the warships docked in the port is an impressive array. It won't be easy though," Lannister commented, earning him a glare of Criston until he saw the somber and serious expression the blonde man had on his face "Our fleets will have to sail around Dorne, through the Stepstones and past Shipbreaker bay just to reach Dragonstone. If we lose too many ships along the way; whether to pirates or storms; then the Velaryon fleet will tear ours apart,"

Aemond's eye narrowed into a slit "What are you suggesting, Ser?" he asked dangerously, his tone full of suspicion.

Lannister, to his credit, met the look without flinching "That we may need to prepare to turn this into a ground war,"

Criston found himself a little impressed by the man's nerve. What Lannister had just said...he was essentially suggesting that Rhaenyra would not, in fact, be an easy victory should she decided to resist. But, Criston conceded, the man had a point. If their fleet failed then the only way to defeat Rhaenyra would be to ferry troops to Dragonstone and Driftmark with whatever they had left. Ferry them across a bay where their enemy would almost certainly have naval superiority. If they went about such an invasion without proper thought, without a real plan in place...then suddenly what should have been a slaughter suddenly becomes that much more difficult. Looking up, he can see that Alicent and Aegon are furious at the suggestion that defeating Rhaenyra would be difficult. If she came to them, or their fleet won, it wouldn't be but if she won the sea's, and forced them to go to her it would be a very different story.

"A ground war?" Gwayne scoffed "You give the whore too much credit Ser Tyland; she doesn't have the strength to match ours. It wouldn't be a war, it would be a massacre,"

"He's right," Criston told them, causing the the two Hightower's and the King to quieten rather quickly "Should our fleet be defeated, the Velaryon's will control the sea. If that happens then she controls the war. Once that happens we need proper supply lines set up and as many men as we can get in whatever time there is," he explained "After all, she could wait winter out, safe on Dragonstone and then take her troops to the Vale, force the fight to happen at the Bloody Gate. I'm sure you all understand how difficult this war becomes should she do that,"

Aemond nodded thoughtfully, but Alicent was not convinced.

"The Vale might stop an army but it cannot stop dragons! Ours are bigger, more powerful..."

"And less of them. Need I remind you that aside from Vhagar, Caraxes is the most battle experienced dragon and Daemon the most skilled rider. Meleys, Snowfyre and Syrax are all threats and whether the Strong bastards have small dragons or no, there are three of them! I don't imagine they would fail to defeat Sunfyre while working together," Aemond snapped back at his mother, whose lips pursed together but fortunately stayed closed "We have three dragons here ready for battle and two hatchlings. They have two young hatchlings and seven dragons on Dragonstone. Theirs are not as large as ours are, but those numbers will make a difference. Ser Criston and Ser Tyland are correct, mother, we will need the armies,"

Aegon frowned and drummed his fingers on the table in an annoying fashion.

Finally, the King spoke "Ser Criston, I need you to begin gathering our army here at King's Landing. Ser Gwayne, take command of the Hightower men in the city; the other councilor's will lend you their own household guards as well. You are to secure the city so that news of father's death cannot escape and arrest any who might support Rhaenyra. Start with the Beesbury men here in the Red Keep.

"Grand Maester, I'll need you to preserve my father's body. No one can know he is dead until my coronation, which means his funeral must wait. Send ravens to anyone who will support us; the Reach, the Riverlands, the Westerlands. Mother, Ser Tyland I trust that you will be able to make the arrangements for my coronation?"

"Of course, my son,""Yes, your grace!"

"Lord Jasper, while Ser Criston makes a valid point about Rhaenyra's strategy, I know my sister well. She is impatient, and may ignore uncle Daemon. If she attacks King's Landing we will need to be ready. Begin organizing the city's defense with Ser Luthor; I want the number of Gold Cloaks tripled, scorpions and catapults set up on the battlements and the gates reinforced as much possible,"

There was a resounding reply of positive answer's such as 'yes, your grace' or 'at once, my king' from all of those who'd been given a task.

"And me, brother?" Aemond questioned in the following silence.

"Once I have been crowned, I'm sending you to Storm's End to win the Stormlands for me. Remind Lord Borros of the last time Storm's End stood against an Aegon and his dragon,"

With a sharp, predatory grin, Aemond nodded once "I'll give either give you the Stag and his army or his army and the Stag's head, brother,"

"Speaking of brother's, your grace, I was wondering if I should send a raven recalling Prince Daeron from Oldtown? With the brewing war, I wondered whether you would prefer him here," Hightower, the King's grandfather, asked.

Aegon's face slipped into an expression of distaste at the mere mention of his youngest brother's name. Aemond frowned at the same time. Neither it seemed wanted to answer that question, or in fact even think about the person it concerned. It was Alicent that answered in the end.

"No," she said after a brief, contemplative silence "If we call him back it makes us look scared. Let him stay at Oldtown for now,"

"Of course, your grace," Hightower nodded

"Speaking of Oldtown and the young Prince, I have heard some news concerning him and his activities in the Reach," Strong interjected slyly, a knowing smile on his face.

"Such as?" Alicent prompted; she had gone rigid when Strong mentioned hearing rumors about her son.

Strong smiled slightly; his words had brought the whole room's attention onto him, and he was loving every minute of it, Criston suspected "Just that he received a visitor nearly a week ago, a visitor who hasn't left since. It would seem you counted wrong, a moment ago," he drawled, looking at Aemond, who's eye narrowed as glared suspiciously at Strong "You said Rhaenyra had nine dragons in total on dragonstone. There are only eight right now. The other is in the same place our sixth is,"

Aemond's teeth were clenched so hard it seemed they would break "Ryder!" he growled, coming to the same conclusion as everyone else had.

Alicent's eyes had lit up though "Send a raven to Daeron. Tell him to kill the Ryder boy and then help my cousin destroy any foolish minor lords that decide to join Rhaenyra!"

Aegon eyed her strangely "You believe he will do that?" he asked dubiously

"He will. For his family,"

Aegon still looked doubtful but nodded anyway "Send the message," he stood "If we have no other business, my Lords, I must see to my wife and children,"

With those words, the first small council meeting of King Aegon II was over. As he left to set about his tasks, Criston quickly instructed Thorne to dispose of Beesbury's body somehow, preferably in a way that made sure no one ever knew what happened. It had been a mistake to kill the old man in such a way. He didn't regret killing him, not in the slightest. It had been necessary, the foolish decrepit had been shouting treason. No, Criston had done his duty in killing him. But he had killed him from behind with a knife to the throat. It wasn't honorable and it would hurt his pride if people found out. Criston Cole they'd sneer such a great warrior he had to kill an old man from behind. It couldn't happen that way.

He didn't regret killing Beesbury. The twisting, gnawing feeling in his gut wasn't guilt. It was worry. Fear. He hadn't felt it in a long time. But he knew who is was for. For all he hated her now, he had loved her once and perhaps still did in a way. He'd always remember the little girl; little Rhae; who'd tied handkerchief's around his lance's and let him crown her with the victor's laurel whenever he won an event. The girl who'd grown up to break his heart. He worried for her, and despised her at the same time. He prayed she would have the sense to kneel.


	6. Rhaenyra I

129 AC

Rhaenyra

There was a hollow, empty feeling in the Princess of Dragonstone's heart and a heavy weight in her stomach as she sat at the head of the painted table. The news had reached her only a day previously, nearly a week after it had happened. Her father was dead. The kind and jovial man that had fathered her, raised her and taught her how to rule had fallen into the Stranger's grasp while asleep one night nearly a week ago and his death had been kept secret from her by her half brother and his vile, deceitful and devious mother. Because of their actions she couldn't even go and visit her father's body to pay her respect's, to see him one last time. According to her loyal knights her father's body had already been given to Dragonfire and his ashes entombed in the Red Keep.

She had heard the news the day before, when Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Lorent Marbrand; decked head to heel in glimmering white armour and cloaks; had been delivered to Dragonstone aboard a smuggler's ship with the crown of her father and great grandfather; Jahaerys the Wise; in their possession. The pair had fled King's Landing in the night only the day after Aemond and Criston's purge of the city had taken place, stealing the crown along with them. To hear Ser Steffon tell it, the days after her father's death were the most frightening few days of his life; according to the knight, it was only his expert control over his emotions that stopped Cole from growing suspicious of his true loyalties.

If it hadn't been for pair of Kingsguard, the court of Dragonstone might not have heard of the King's death and Aegon's treason until it was too late. As it was, the new Lord Commander of her Kingsguard had told them everything; from the moment of her father's death, the plotting of the Hightower's, brave Lyman Beesbury's fate, the treason of the Small Council and their plans followed by the purging of the city by Hightower men. Wanting to serve the rightful Queen, Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent had, in the dead of night, stolen the crown and made their way to her. For that, they would be rewarded. Already, she had named Ser Steffon her Lord Commander. To Ser Lorent she would grant an honorary title of some sort when she took the Throne. And she would take the Throne. She had no intention of letting her coward of a brother steal what was rightfully hers.

Her hand clenched, imaging herself strangling the up jumped brat to death herself, squeezing the life out of him. It was doubtful that she would get such an opportunity or that she would be able to overpower her brother if it did, but it gave her such pleasure to imagine it. Implausible though strangling Aegon may be, his mother was not so impossible nor his overweight wife. She would make him pay. Nearly snarling, she looked down at the crumpled parchment in her hand. It had arrived by raven from King's Landing not an hour ago, announcing Aegon as King and demanding that the Lords of the Realm swear fealty to him; there was an extra message with the message to Dragonstone that she doubted the other Lords received; ordering her to give up her claim and support Aegon. She snorted. Aegon; or more accurately his mother and Ser Criston; clearly didn't know their lords. According to what she had heard, Lord Rosby and Darklyn had also fled the city and were currently raising their banners for her cause. That news had certainly come as a surprise. She might have counted on one of them, but never both. In recent months their rivalry had become similar to the Bracken-Blackwood feud in the Riverlands. For them to ally together in support of her...it was encouraging, to say the least.

"Your grace?" she heard, and she glanced up at her good-father's old weathered face where his lilac eyes showed unmistakable concern.

She knew she ought to pay more attention to the meeting going on around her. She knew, logically, that it was vitally important. But her heart, weighed down by grief, wouldn't let her. It wasn't just grief for her father either, though that was certainly part of it. The rest was for her baby girl, born and killed late the night before. It had been too early for childbirth, she had nearly two more moons to go before Elaena should have been born. The maester, Gerardys, who had served on Dragonstone for nigh on fifteen years now, said that the shock of so much ill news at one time had been too much and had forced an early birth; one that Elaena had not lived through. Rhaenyra's jaw clenched; her little daughter, who she'd been waiting to birth for so long, was now dead, dead before she even got a chance to live. And it was all Aegon's fault. Even if she couldn't kill him herself, he's wish for death before the end. So would the traitor Cole, the whore Alicent and her rotten family as well as the ill-born wretch that was named Aemond. Her rage cleared her mind, rather than cloud it. Eyes cold, hard and determined she brought her attention back to the room and glanced over her council.

Her husband and uncle Daemon sat to her left. Despite that no battles had yet to be fought, nor would there be for the moment, he was dressed for war and looked as though the Warrior had taken human form. His silver hair and neat beard was flecked with some areas of grey that belied his age, but despite that he stood tall and strong, the tallest in the room by half a head and his broad chest and shoulders made him look as strong as an ox. He was clad in his plate armour, a dark silver-grey coloured suit with a black surcoat over his breastplate. The red sigil of their house was elegantly embroidered onto the front of the surcoat and onto the shoulder braces of his armour, with a golden cloak billowing out behind him; richer and finer than that of the City Watch but cut in the same style. His horned half helm sat on the table in front of him and his Valyrian steel longsword; Dark Sister; sat on his hip, his left hand resting over the hilt. Looking at him now, Rhaenyra remembered why she married him. It wasn't for power; not wholly, at least, but because he'd intrigued her. Laenor had been a good rider and an average swordsman but he hadn't been a warrior. His passion was music and plays and art, not fighting and he preferred Joffrey Lonmouth and Qarl Correy's company to hers. She'd been fond of him, but not as a husband. More as a younger sibling; one that she wouldn't have married had she the choice. Daemon was wholly different, and it had piqued her interest as a widower.

After Daemon came her father's cousin and her husband. The elderly Sea Snake was past his seventieth year but one wouldn't know it by looking at him. His face was old one could tell at a glance; it was worn and a little tired, marked with wrinkles and topped with thinning snow white hair; yet it showed a hardness that few men of that age retained. Rather than make him look feeble, the weathered face had something in it's appearance that reminded the Queen of hard leather, strong and resistant. His posture wasn't slouched in the slightest and his jaw was set in grim determination. As he stood there in a light blue doublet and white jerkin, Rhaenyra knew that he would be invaluable in the coming weeks and found the that the his fire still being lit was a welcome relief. The woman next to him was the daughter of Rhaenyra's great uncle. King Jahaerys' first heir, Aemon, had died in battle against Myrish pirates on Tarth many years ago, leaving only a daughter by his Baratheon wife. Though Rhaenys had been considered at the Great Council for the position of heir, she was ultimately passed over in favor of Rhaenyra's grandfather, Baelon, and later for her father. Still, the Queen-Who-Never-Was; as she had become known to the smallfolk; held no resentment for Rhaenyra, though that may be because the Queen had married the fiery tempered woman's son.

Either way, Rhaenyra was glad to have her cousin on side. The woman flew one of their fiercest dragons and after Daemon had the most experience, having joined her husband for one of the battles in the Stepstones. She was as strong on land as she was on dragon back though. While not as naturally talented as Daemon or Lucos, Rhaenys was formidable in her own right. At that moment; as she stood next to her husband; Rhaenys looked every inch a fighter. Her silver hair was pulled back into a tight braid in a similar style as Visenya Targaryen was said to worn and her brown boots; though embroidered with red fabric in a pattern of flame; would look more suited to a soldier than a princess, and in place of a gown or dress she wore; almost always; leather riding trousers in a dark red shade and a black gambeson, trimmed with red, over her upper body.

On the other side of the table were her eldest sons. Jace was on her right, his younger brothers Luke and Joff beside him. Her boys looked so much like men as they stood there that it forced Rhaenyra to wonder where the years went. It seemed hardly any time since they were babes in arms. Now they were dragon riders, all three of them, and thinking themselves ready for wore. Jace and Luke, in particular, looked the role of warrior Prince's. Jace had taken his uncle's example and had donned a silver breastplate over his ringmail leather doublet. Black and red vambraces covered his wrists and from ankle to knee he wore pitch black greaves and sturdy boots of the same colour. Luke was less heavily armoured than his brother but if one looked closely you could see the chainmail hauberk beneath his shirt. Both wore their swords with them, making fear surge through their mother when the image of her boys in battle flashed into her mind. Shaking her head to clear it of such thoughts, Rhaenyra looked at her youngest son. Dressed to live up to his older brothers, the eleven year old was clad in a deep red leather coat and grey breeches. While Joff may not own his own blade, that hadn't stopped him from attaching his dagger to his belt.

Ser Steffon was present in the room too, a silent white shadow alongside his sworn brother, Ser Erryk and Ser Lorent. Grand Maester Gerardys sat opposite her, near the carving that represented Dorne. The other Lords of the Narrow Sea that had already pledged their support had sent representative's to Dragonstone; Lord Celtigar, Lord Sunglass' son and heir, Lady Massey's husband and Lord Bar Emmon's uncle; and out of courtesy they had been allowed to sit in on the council meeting. They crammed either between her children and the Maester, or between her husband, and good-parents and the Maester. She would listen to them but it was her family who's advice meant the most to her.

Glancing at the letter once more, she spoke "My half brother has claimed my throne and stolen my birthright. He demands we surrender, and acknowledge him as the true King," her tone held nothing but malice, making it clear to those present exactly what she thought of Aegon's words.

"It is the Prince's hand, and the King's seal, but the Dowager Queen's words," Corlys pointed out, unnecessarily. Rhaenyra knew very well who's words they were "It may yet be possible to convince Aegon to end this foolishness,"

"You would have me ignore his treason, Lord Corlys?"

"I would have it so you are not stained with the name Kinslayer," he placated, hands held up in surrender. A warrior, commander, soldier; Corlys Velaryon was all of those things but as a diplomat and administrator is where he truly shone.

Rhaenyra mused on the notion of convincing Aegon to surrender as opposed to forcing him to. It had some merit, in theory, but Rhaenyra knew her brothers nature. He was an ambitious brat with an ambitious mother and uncle advising him. He wouldn't surrender "Maester, send a raven to King's Landing. Inform my brother that I fully intend to take what is rightfully mine and that if he surrender's now I shall be merciful," she ordered. There was no need to appear tyrannical. Giving her wayward and misled brother a chance to repent would endear her to the Lords far more than Aegon's threatening and demanding letter did "But impress upon him that should he stand in my way, he will receive nothing but Fire and Blood,"

"At once, your grace," Gerardys nodded, and then hesitated "Such a promise may have more weight if her grace had more allies?"

The second Ser Steffon had told them of the events in King's Landing, Daemon had crowned her using her father's crown and had ravens sent to every house in Westeros, just as Aegon had, calling upon them for their support. As of right now, only the Lords of the Narrow Sea; those sworn directly to her; had responded, making quick time in sending small groups of knights and men at arms while their levies were raised.

"Have any other house's joined us?" Rhaenys asked, picking up on the insinuation in the Maester's voice.

"Indeed," he shuffled through some papers, pulling out nearly a dozen scrolls "As Ser Steffon had told us, I can now confirm that House's Darklyn and Rosby are raising their banners for us. I have also received ravens from Lords Staunton, Stokeworth, Chyttering and Follard and the various lords of Crakclaw Point, all pledging their support,"

Luke's brow was furrowed as he quickly tallied up the numbers. Rhaenyra was sure that Daemon could easily say how many men their combined support could raise without even trying, but a quick glance at the veteran warrior and the Queen knew that he was allowing Luke the chance to do so instead.

"That should bring our numbers to seventeen thousand," he said, barely a moment later

"Seventeen thousand if they each commit their full strength, including grey beards and green boys. Even then, we're scattered. The house's that have ignored us are those closest to King's Landing, meaning their armies could already be marching to rally at King's Landing," Lord Celtigar pointed out, rubbing his bushy white beard thoughtfully.

"Mayhaps they are, but their most experienced commander is a knight who thinks some tourney wins makes him a war hero," Corlys said dismissively "The Lords of the Narrow Sea are perhaps the most experienced in all of Westeros your grace and regardless of how many men Aegon musters, we have control of the sea,"

It was true, Rhaenyra acknowledged. Dragonstone alone had twenty war galley's and twice that number of galleys at anchor just off shore. Driftmark had even more, boasting twenty-five war ships, fifty galley's and fifteen cogs currently docked at High Tide. Combined, the other lords could between them raise five war ships, sixteen galley's and six cogs. A hundred and seventy-seven ships, all told plus whatever merchant ships Corlys managed to conscript from the area. Their naval situation had gotten even better when thirty-seven of the fifty war ships that had been docked at King's Landing sailed out of the bay under the cover of darkness and began flying her personal banner. With a total of two hundred and fourteen ships, of which eighty-seven were war galley's, meant that their naval power was nearly unmatched.

"Not if they manage to get the Ironborn and the Redwyne Fleet," Jace pointed out "Even just the Arbor will be difficult enough to contend with,"

"And that's only the root of our problem's. The Lannister's are almost certainly going to declare for Aegon, as will the Hightower's and Tully's," Daemon told her "The men we can raise in the Crownlands won't be enough. The Vale will join us, most like, but their forces will for the most part be trapped in the Vale. We need more men,"

"And where would you suggest, husband?"

"The North. Aegon has made his disdain for the region clear. He will not reach out to them, which means we can," the one time King said "I would also send more ravens and several offers to the Iron Islands and any potential supporters we may have in the Riverlands, Westerlands or Reach,"

Rhaenys chose that moment to speak up "The Stormlands are a strong possibility too. My mother was Lord Boremund's sister, and he swore to support both Laenor and myself at the Great Council. His son, Lord Borros, is my cousin. He will help us, if we ask,"

"Very well, have ravens sent to Storms End and Winterfell offering whatever it takes to..."

"Mother the Stormlands and North are too valuable to send nothing more than a mere raven. The Lords would feel insulted," Joffrey pointed out, licking his lips nervously.

"And what would you suggest instead?" Rhaenyra asked her son, but it was Luke that replied.

"Let me take Arrax and fly north to bring Winterfell into the fold," he offered.

Rhaenyra, despite knowing how important it was to win the North, hesitated. The flight from Dragonstone to Winterfell was fraught with danger and Arrax and Luke were both young and inexperienced. Anything could happen on the way, and some of the stories Rhaenyra had heard about the Northerners...If they decided to support Aegon instead then Rhaenyra feared for what her son would go through. He wasn't the strongest diplomat and he would struggle with the negotiations. But still; his idea had merit.

"No," she declared eventually and watched Luke's shoulders and eyes drop in disappointment "The journey is too long and Jace is a more experienced rider. He will go to the Eyrie and win us the Vale's support before going to treat with the Starks. You, Luke, will fly to Storms End and bring Lord Borros to our cause,"

Reluctant though she was, Rhaenyra knew that she would need to send emissary's to the North and Stormlands their support would be too valuable to send a mere raven. Jace was; harsh though it may sound; was the more charismatic of the two and the more talented at diplomacy, if for no other reason than that Jace was being raised to rule, whereas Luke was on the path most second sons walked; the path of the soldier. Jace would have a better chance of success in Winterfell than his younger sibling would, besides which Vermax was both bigger and Jace more experienced as a rider thus making the journey itself less of a risk. Still, it wouldn't do to make Luke feel distrusted, or neglected, so Rhaenyra opted to send him to the far closer Storm's End, whose Lord was almost certain to side with them if only they approached him.

The two boys replied simultaneously with a resounding "Yes, mother,"

The next to speak was Cedric Sunglass, the heir of the weak, elderly and infirm Lord Sunglass. The man was young enough, seeing as his father was over seventy. The young Lord must have only recently seen his thirtieth nameday, Rhaenyra was sure, and he clearly didn't have any prior experience in battle. His eyes, a bright, excited blue were more akin to her children's than the battle hardened and weary eyes of a warrior she saw every day in Corlys, Daemon and Crispian Celtigar. His hair was long, reached past his years and was a soft, strawberry blonde colour. The man was comely enough, she supposed. He was the sort of man she'd take to bed, but not one she'd trust with her life. By all acounts he was at best mediocre with a blade and utterly unsuited to life as a Lord. He was frivolous and wasteful, enjoying fine clothes, grand feasts and colorful tournaments to actual ruling. Not that such a preference was necessarily bad. It was only bad when one neglected one's duties to pursue such hobbies; which was exactly what he did. Unfortunately, house Sunglass was in a dire state. The heir was a fool, the second son and the only daughter as lack witted as each other and the third son was a mad man. By all acounts it was the youngest son, a man of twenty, that had all of the talent; he was a fine warrior and had reportedly worked tirelessly with the maester and steward of Sweetport Sound to keep his family afloat. Rhaenyra wished to all the Gods it was the youngest son here now.

"What about the Dornish?" The young heir suggested, and Rhaenyra restrained a flinch. This wouldn't likely end well "They could make a strong ally,"

She could already see the sharp narrowing of Corlys' eyes, the tightening of Daemon's jaw and the scarred hand of Lord Celtigar begin to clench the shaft of his Valyrian steel long axe from where it rested against the table next to him. Those three had bad history with Dorne. When Daemon led his invasion into the Stepstones, both Lord's had joined him; though Crispian had, at the time, been naught more than a squire of fifteen. The resistance of the recently formed Triarchy had been expected. Myr, Lys and Tyrosh profited greatly from the pirate activity in the Stepstones and wouldn't want that to come to an end. What hadn't been expected was the interference of the Dornish. Ulric Martell had led the Dornish Spears to defend the islands and had been the greatest threat to the invasion. The Velaryon fleet swept aside the pirate vessels like a knife through butter, and the pirates themselves fell due to their lack of armour and the use of it by the Westerosi knights. The Sellsword's hired by the Triarch broke easily or died easily. But the Dornish...Daemon feared to use Caraxes against them, as the Dornish were, and remain, the only people's to have ever felled a dragon before. Trying to break their spears as they defended the isle of Bloodstone, guarding the keep that would one day be repaired, expanded and renamed Daemon's Keep was incredibly difficult. Though victory was eventually achieved, for a time at least, it was to the Dornish that most casualties were taken.

Surprisingly, it was not Daemon who answered "The Dornish? HA! You'd be better off throwing yourself on your own sword, Ser. You're likely to end up the same way if you place your trust with a Dornishman," Jace scoffed, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Fucking snakes, all of them," Celtigar grunted "Mark my words, boy, if we march with Dorne we'll end with poison in our drinks and spears through our backs,"

"Mayhaps, but the lad has a point," Samwell Bar Emmon; the grizzled uncle and Master at Arms of the eight year old Lord Raelor; spoke gruffly, his tone low and rough. He was a decent swordsmen and loyal to a fault, Rhaenyra knew from having met him several times in the last three years, as he was the joint regent of Sharp Point alongside the widowed Lady Bar Emmon. But he wasn't a brilliant strategist. Still, his advice wasn't likely to be as useless as some others.

"Are you mad, Ser?" Corlys asked, his eyebrow raised "Trusting the Dornish would be madness,"

"Perhaps," Bar Emmon nodded "But Dorne can raise 30,000 men easily plus half again as many with horsemen and archers. If the Reach rises against us, then those snakes might be the only thing standing between the Green's and our defeat. That besides, having Dorne on our side might be the only way to stop the Redwyne's from contesting for control of the sea's,"

It was true, Rhaenyra understood. Her adviser's knew it too, though they loathed it.

"We would be fools to place our trust in the Dornish," she spoke "King Qoren is a manipulative, devious and greedy man. But Ser Samwell is correct; they may be our only chance," she stopped and considered her options for the moment. Her Lords waited patiently for her decision "Maester send a raven to Dalton Greyjoy offering wealth and plunder if he supports us by raiding our enemies, then prepare a letter offering an alliance with Dorne but do not send it. We will not go crawling to the desert rats like beggar's until we have no other choice. Send the letter only if we fail to gain the Greyjoy's allegiance or if the Reach calls it's banner's for Aegon,"

There was a moment of contemplative silence as Gerardys made a note on what he would have to do once the meeting ended, before Daemon stepped forward, his hands resting over his helm "By your leave, your grace, once the meeting is adjourned I will fly with Caraxes and capture Harrenhall in your name,"

Rhaenyra frowned. Harrenhall? It was a mighty fortress to be sure and simply by the number of lands in it's Lords dominion it produced no small revenue of gold and crop. And the Queen would love nothing more than to take Clubfoot's home from him; the home he stole by murdering Lord Lyonel and her beloved Harwin. But Rhaenyra was no fool. She knew that with a castle of that size, it would take far more men than they had to garrison it enough that it could withstand either a siege or an assault and still have a sizeable army in the field. The castle was too big. One would need a thousand men at least, mayhaps more, in order to cover every possible entry. Any less and there would be too many blind spots in the defences. Besides, Harrenhal wasn't invulnerable to dragons; the burned out state of the castle was testament to that. So she couldn't understand why exactly he would want to go there.

"Harrenhal, my husband?," she questioned, her voice curious "Whatever for?"

Smirking deviously, Daemon explained "Though old Grover Tully won't support our cause, there are many among his bannermen who would favor us above Aegon," her husband said, and she began to see where this was going "They'll need somewhere to rally, since Riverrun is no longer an option. Using Harrenhal allows us to both house our Riverlands allies until they are ready to march and to utilize the strategic value of Harrenhall,"

"What strategic value does an old ruin have?" Sunglass asked

It was Jace that replied to the knight's question "Harrenhal sits only a few miles west of the Kingsroad. With it in our control we can easily blockade the city from the north. Moreover, as long as we have a force at Harrenhal we control the map. From there we can strike in whatever direction we want; south at King's Landing or west to the Lannister's,"

Rhaenyra hummed thoughtfully before giving her husband a nod, granting permission, before standing and walking around the table so that she stood next to area that portrayed the Crownlands. They had been a part of the Storm Kingdom before the conquest, when the table was painted and carved, before being sworn directly to the Crown after Aegon had conquered and united the continent into under a single ruler. There were dragon heads to represent her own forces set up around the table and stone towers for her brothers. She glanced over the pieces, thinking and planning. She, Daemon, Corlys and Rhaenys had gone over the troop locations and sizes earlier, before the Lords had arrived and discussed what the best strategy would be. Rhaenyra already knew what she would say; she trusted her family and their counsel, knowing that war was not her area of expertise. But she had to give the appearance of someone who knew what they were doing; so she gave the Lords a show of their Queen planning on the spot, to give them that image.

Finally, she began "Ser Jon!" she called. Ser Jon Pyle was the youngest son of Lord Pyle, a vassal of the Massey's of Stonedance. Though to call Ser Jon young would be ridiculous. The man was older than her father had been. He had married Lady Eleanor Massey; the eldest of five daughters born to the previous Lord Massey; on the stipulation that his children would bare the Massey name, and now stood as her representative on Rhaenyra's council. He had come with two galley's and a single cog, along with a hundred Men at Arms and half again as many knights "Sail back to Stonedance with your men and take command of your wife's levies. I want you to move quickly and defeat Aegon's forces south of the Blackwater; I need Farring Cross taken,"

Farring Cross was the name of a small village and it's modest wooden holdfast that sat on a crossroads just on the southern bank of the Blackwater. It had minimal trade and only a small force of men. However, the northern road of that crossroad just so happened to be a bridge, a bridge that was the only way to cross the Blackwater before it branched off to join the God's Eye without needing to use rafts. Sitting five and a half league's to the west of King's Landing, it was; strategically; a vitally important location. If Ser Jon could capture the crossing then the no matter what allegiance's the Reachmen had, supplies would not be making it to King's Landing. To illustrate her point, Rhaenyra moved a dragon head from Massey's Hook to the rough location of the crossing, placing the carving down in front of a tower.

"It will be done, my Queen,"

"The rest of you will return to your lands and raise what men you can, then return," she commanded "I will need as many as I can get,"

With a collective grumble of 'yes, your grace', the assembled Lords made their way out of the keep and down to the dock, boarding their ships and returning home to complete the task's their Queen had given them, her family going with them. She was left with just her family.

Jace sighed "There is one other issue," he began "Our forces on the ground aren't our only concern,"

"Some among us are a little concerned about our dragon situation," Corlys stated, and by the rolling of Daemon's eyes, he wasn't among the 'some'.

Confused at his concern, Rhaenyra fixed her gaze on the man "Why would you be concerned, nuncle? We have more dragons than they do,"

"True as that is, they have Vhagar, the largest of all living dragons, as well as Dreamfyre and Sunfyre, both battle dragons, and both larger than any of our own, bar Caraxes. It is...," Rhaenys halted, seemingly trying to find the right word "Concerning," she eventually finished.

"The size of their dragons is a problem," Rhaenyra conceded, nodding slightly at her once good-mother "But not as much as you imagine. While the Green's may have larger mounts, they have only four; 'less they mean for the babes to ride their hatchlings. Of those four only two are notably large, with Sunfyre being barely bigger than Meleys or Syrax and Tessarion barely bigger than Vermax. We, on the other hand, have eight. Numbers will prevail in this fight, aunt,"

Daemon blinked "Eight?" he asked, and then his eyes widened "NO! Baela is too young. Moondancer too! She's barely bigger than a horse, Rhaenyra, any of the Green's dragons would tear them apart!"

Rhaenyra grumbled slightly but heard his point. Moondancer was only the size of the average stallion at the moment. She knew how her husband felt. She would feel the same if someone suggested counting Aegon and his pony sized dragon take part in the battles. Even still, Baela might need to take to the skies if the day demanded it. Seven Hells, her own boys were barely older than Daemon's girls (and in Joff's case, younger) and all three of them were insisting on fighting in the coming war. Granted, their dragons had been alive for longer and had thus grown a lot more. The largest was Vermax, Jace's dragon, who was also the eldest and the dragon was young and thriving, growing larger every day. Tyraxes was the smallest, but only by a little. They were, all three, roughly four or five times the size of a particularly large warhorse.

"That brings me to the other matter," Jace said gravely "Lucos is in Oldtown. He won't have heard yet and that means he's in danger,"

Rhaenyra's head had snapped up the second Jace mentioned his friend (brother, really, though not in blood) was in their enemies home. Over the years that boy had become like a sixth son to her. Of course, she had been appreciative when he first saved Jace from the shipwreck and storm near the Merling Spears; and she had taken Lucos in the second Jace requested it; but their relationship had grown to the point where she loved him as though he was one of her own, and she knew Daemon felt the same, in his own gruff manner. Hearing that he was in Oldtown was concerning and slightly confusing; Rhaenyra had no idea what he could possible be doing in that cesspool of vipers until she recalled that Daeron was there too. She scowled. Though she supposed that of all her siblings, at least her children had befriended the best of a bad bunch.

"Grand Maester, send a raven to Oldtown. Warn Lucos of what has happened and the danger he is in, but do so discreetly. We don't need Lord Ormund getting suspicious," she caught the look Jace was giving her and sighed "We can't send anyone Jace. It would just put more of our family in danger. We have to trust that Lucos can look after himself,"

She saw the conflict raging in Jace's eyes. Luke and Joff's as well. Corlys was quite passive about the situation, though Rhaenyra could see worry in his eyes. Worry about the potential loss of a rider so early, as opposed to worry for Lucos himself, like as not, Rhaenyra thought bitterly. Rhaenyra glanced to Daemon and gave him a significant look. He caught the look and the underlying message and stepped in, placing a hand on Jace's shoulder as he rounder the table, helm now tucked under his other arm.

"Lucos wields a blade as well as the Conqueror himself did, and sits his dragon better than any other rider I've ever seen," he paused, and then grinned roguishly "Excepting myself, of course," it was a weak jape, but it made Jace smile slightly and roll his eyes fondly at his great-uncle's boast "Those flowery bastards in Oldtown won't know what's happening. Most likely is the they'll shit themselves thinking it's the Stranger come to strike them down, and that's before he gets to his dragon,"

She saw some of the tension seep out of Jace's shoulder's as he nodded before excusing himself, citing that he needed to go and prepare for the journey to Winterfell. Luke and Daemon followed him for the same reason, though they were traveling to vastly different locations, while Gerardys headed off to his tower to send the messages he had been assigned to write and Joffrey; at the urging of his mother; went to see his brothers off, as they would leave later that day. Corlys and Rhaenys needed to leave for Driftmark, to finish raising their troops, leaving Rhaenyra alone. She rubbed a hand over her face in exhaustion and frustration, before hastily composing herself. It wouldn't do for any guests to see their Queen so weak.

Pouring a goblet of wine, Rhaenyra stood by one of the four tall windows, watching the various ships depart the island for their wide range of destinations. Sighing heavily, she took a long gulp of the sweet Arbor Gold; mayhaps the last she'd have for a while, if the Redwyne's declared for her half-brother. A war was brewing, she knew. She knew she wouldn't back down and knew that Aegon wouldn't either. It would come to war. And her children would be at the heart of it.

That night, Rhaenyra did not sleep well. Jace, Luke and Daemon had all departed earlier in the day; sometime in mid afternoon; leaving Rhaenyra to sleep in the overly large bed alone, and the castle feeling more emptier than it had ever been, regardless of the fact that it was actually fuller than ever with knights and men at arms from her vassal's crammed in wherever they could be fit in alongside her family, their guards and their courtiers. Despite the wine from the meeting as well as what she'd drank at the evening meal only a few hours earlier, her sleep was plagued with horrifying nightmare's. She dreamed of Jace flying above the Blackwater in battle, crying out in anger and gut wrenching grief as his dragon was brought down, the beast crashing into the sea. She saw her eldest son, her first born, being filled with arrows and sinking beneath the waves. She was granted an image of Luke desperately trying to fly Arrax away from first Vhagar in the middle of a fierce storm and then above Dragonstone, on what must be a much larger and older Arrax; though the coloring was more than a little different; as he narrowly evaded Sunfyre. She saw her little Aegon, pale as the dead and unmoving as the clanging of swords rang out around her and then of Tyraxes being stuck by a scorpion bolt as he rose above the Dragonpit on Rhaenys' Hill. No shades of Viserys bothered her that night but her husband she did see, atop Caraxes as the Blood Wyrm and Vhagar were locked in a stalemate as they plummeted towards a lake. She dreamed of Lucos, too; an older Lucos, wearing a beard and marked by several scars she knew he didn't have; crumpling to the sandy ground with a sword stuck through his chest.

She awoke covered in a cold sweat and bolted into a sitting position the second her eyes opened, her heart beating wildly and loud enough that she was sure her guards would hear it and come running. Shaking ever so slightly, still terrified and devastated at the images her mind had conjured, she slowed her breathing and slipped a gown on, making her way into the corridor. Her guard for the knight, Ser Lorent Marbrand, looked slightly surprised to see her awake at such an early hour, but dutifully and silently he followed her nonetheless. She walked the freezing corridor's, ignoring the cold seeping through her slippers from the stone floor. She stopped first at Joffrey's room. Her thirdborn; already looking to be taller and broader than his older brothers, was sleeping soundly, collapsed over his desk where a map of westeros lay open, toy soldiers standing in for the carved piece's of the painted table. Smiling a weak smile, she pressed a kiss to his forehead and called his sworn sword, Ser Harold Darke to enter and put him into his bed.

From there she visited her two youngest. Both of her youngest boys, silver haired like their parents and with unmistakable valyrian features, the eight and seven year old Prince's each slept soundly in their own rooms, not stirring in the slightest. Satisfied that her children were all safe, she began making her way back to her lonely chambers. Glancing at her copper haired white shadow, she considered asking him to join her. But she decided against it. He was too honorable, he would refuse. He couldn't refuse a command of course, but what sort of companionship was that. Maegor had done that several times, she knew, and oft wondered how he ever felt happy knowing that none of those women were with him freely; some forced, some coerced with only Tyanna of the Tower being neither and even she was only there for the power he could give her.

She sighed again. She wasn't particularly religious or devout but just this once she offered a silent prayer to each of the Seven. 'Please let my children live. Please keep them safe'.


	7. Lucos I

129 AC

Lucos

The soft orange glow of early morning sunlight filtered in through the east facing window of their rich and extravagant room. Despite the personal preference of both it's current owner and his frequent guest; the latter of whom much preferred his own rather stark and bare room at Dragonstone, with it's dull grey look, and the former, despite being more used to such finery, found the room to be a little too extravagant even for him and missed the black's and red's he was used to from home; the room was coloured in bright greens and silvers and golds. A massive bed sat to one side of the room, nearest the east facing window, with four polished copper post's at each corner and covered by thick, deep green, velvet blankets and with dozens of small silver dragons and golden roses carefully stitched into the fabric. The other half of the room was taken up by a sturdy desk; it's frame lined with steel that had been gilded to give of a gold appearance; set up against the wall opposite the door, a wooden model with the vague shape of a body, designed to wear a full suit of armour; currently only adorned by gauntlet's, shoulder braces, a breastplate and a helm; until the owner had need was standing in the far corner. There was a cabinet beside the bed, a chest of drawers against the wall to the right and a chest at the foot, all of which were made of the finest ironwood from the North.

There were two windows in the room. One sat above the desk, facing south over the vast city, the harbor and the bay. Directly below was the training yard and the walls that surrounded the High Tower, the stone keep and beacon house of Oldtown, which stood half again as tall and twice as thick as the walls of the city. The incredibly impressive structure's of the Citadel, the home of the Maesters, could be seen from this window, as could the blindingly white marble structure that was the Starry Sept. The Sept was easily three times the size of even the largest manse in the city but the Citadel; a series of tall towers and great domed buildings, all connected by a series of bridge's; that sat on the edge of the Honeywine river, just south of the city itself, dwarfed even that. Only the Hightower could match the set of buildings in size and even then the seat of House Hightower was not as impressive. The rest of the city could barely measure up; though that was not to say it was poor by any means. Though there were rundown, wooden buildings near the dock that had been turned into homes for several families at a time or brothel's and inns, there was no sign of the mass overcrowding that was beginning to affect King's Landing. Unlike the capital, Oldtown had a much more functional sewage system, and there were streets of luxurious whorehouses, twice as many as the Street of Silk and oft more enticing. Small business set up everywhere. Fisher's and baker's and butcher's just like King's Landing but more organized, along with blacksmith's; some of whom made only weapons, others armour and some other items like cooking pots or horse-shoe's. Craftsmen, jewelers trader's, money lenders and a host of other ventures found profit in Oldtown, unlike the relatively limited merchants of King's Landing.

The other, east facing window gave a stunning view of the Reach's countryside. Plains of bright green grass spanned as far as the mind could see, dew glittering in the light as winter began to come to an end. Some of the fields, an acre or two just outside the city, were fenced off from the rest and used to grow a host of flowers, many of which would be unrecognizable to any Northman. Beyond that was miles of land, half unused. It was winter now, and most of the produce was either stored or had been traded with less productive Kingdoms, but unlike the North, the Vale and the Riverlands the men of the Reach worked year round. It was easy to tell the farmed land from the unused land. Those tracts of land being used to grow grain had a yellow colour to it from a distance; where only the tops of the wheat and grain could be seen, while the unused land was either a covered by regrown grass. Even grazing animals could be identified sometimes, if one looked closely enough. Far off in the distance, the Red Mountains of Dorne could be seen and it was above these distant peak's that the sun was currently rising over.

Over the course of the night, their fire had died down little by little reduced to little more than smouldering embers and the sun alone wasn't enough to warm their room. While the Reach was much warmer than any other Kingdom; excluding the ever scorching deserts of Dorne; this winter, though not particularly long or harsh, brought very low temperature's with it even as far south as Oldtown, and on that day it was worse than ever before. The boy who'd been granted the room by their hosts was very much not inclined to remove himself from the blankets as a result, and seemed content to simply lie in the warmth that surrounded him. Rolling his eyes at the dramatics of southerners; by the gods it's only a little cold; Lucos began to extract himself from the tomb of fabric, preparing to light the fire and get some warmth into the room in an attempt to lure Daeron out of his velvet cocoon. Lucos; from years of experience; knew that Daeron hated the cold with a passion often reserved for the Seven Hells and it would be impossible to force him to rise for the day until the chill had been removed, or at least lessened. It was the dragon in him, Lucos supposed. Jace would be doing the exact same; and it always amused him how similar Jace and Daeron were, given their past feuds; as would Joff. Aegon, Viserys and Luke would get up though, regardless of the cold.

Lucas extracted himself from the tangle of limbs he'd found himself in, which led to a groan of disappointment from Daeron, which rapidly changed to a sharp hiss as the cold air crept beneath the covers and hit his body when Lucos moved the blankets. As the Northman made to stand, a pair of slender, pale skinned arms caught him around the waist, preventing him from moving. Sighing resignedly, Lucos allowed the him back into the bed.

"Daeron," he growled at the taller boy, as the silver haired prince buried his face into the crook as Lucos' neck "Let me go. You have duties to attend to and I know you won't leave the bed until the fire is lit,"

Daeron grumbled "Let me be late for once, I didn't ask to be Ormund's squire nor did I want to. If you recall I asked to squire for Ser Erryk on Dragonstone," he muttered, lifting his head and with pleading lilac eyes met Lucos' gaze "So, since that was denies to me, let me have this. Stay here with me?"

At the look that Daeron knew how to use entirely too well, Lucos felt his resolve weaken. It had been a year. near enough, since he and Daeron had shared that first kiss in the armory of King's Landing and ever since they'd been sneaking around behind the back's of their family and friends, stealing kisses and affectionate words whenever they could. It had become increasingly difficult to concentrate in lessons, as Daeron and Lucos would sit beside each other every other lesson and gentlely brush hands when Orwyle, Jace, Luke, Joff and Daemon's daughters weren't looking. Training was hard, too, as both ended up holding back far too much, unwilling to hurt the other. Luckily, it soon reached the point where Daeron had to face Jace or Luke in training bouts, because Lucos had been deemed ready to start one on one training with the Kingsguard. If swordplay lessons had been hell before, they were even worse now. After a spar, he could barely move. They expected the best. Ser Willis often went a little lighter, as did the Cargyll brothers. Thorne had no such qualms, and Cole seemed to even take pleasure in leaving him with a myriad of bruises and cuts each session. Lucos didn't mind though; he had to be the best, to protect Daeron and Jace. He couldn't lose another family because of his own weakness. Daeron and Jace hated those two though, couldn't understand why he didn't ask for the lessons to stop.

Over a year now they'd been together, and they'd only gotten better at keeping the secret; though several knowing glance's and smiles from Daemon, Jace and, most shockingly, the King had given Lucos the impression that they hadn't been all that successful at all. The downside was that Daeron had mastered the ability to get Lucos to do whatever he wanted, even without using his royal status. The fact that the night before was the first time they'd ever been together intimately only made Daeron's request for Lucos to remain abed with him for a while longer all the more tempting.

"You could get in trouble," the dark haired youth warned his partner, noncommittally. He'd already given in, and given the way Daeron's eyes lit up, his resignation must have been easy to hear in his tone

"Then so be it," the Prince grinned, tugging Lucos further back beneath the covers and wrapping himself around the slightly shorter but significantly broader body next to him. Lucos, for his part, didn't mind all that much. Though he had northern blood and felt the effects of the cold less than the rest of the southerners did, Lucos knew that his life in the warm lands of Essos and then the Crownlands meant he was nowhere near as unaffected as other Northmen would be, and Daeron's particularly warm body was much more comfortable than the frigid room "It would be worth it. You're worth it,"

Lucos frowned. There was a particular emphasis on those last words that made him rather uncomfortable. When he opened his mouth to speak, however, he was swiftly cut off.

"Don't pretend you don't sometimes start thinking that you aren't," his lover scolded "I'm not blind. Jace isn't either and even though he's half as intelligent as a bird, he can see that look you sometimes have just as well as I can,"

"What look?"

"The one you get whenever we look after you when you're finished letting those so-called 'knights' beat you half to death. The one you get when we change our plans to include you. The one you get when I tell you I love you," Daeron said sharply "The one that says you don't believe us,"

Lucos hesitated and that hesitation seemed to be all that Daeron had needed to confirm his suspicions. Truthfully, Lucos couldn't deny Daeron's words. They were true: his family was dead and he had survived by running away. While he knew that Jace would have died had he not been there, he sometimes couldn't help but think that he should have tried to fight. He would have died, to be sure, but he would have died fighting, avenging his murdered family. It was times like those that made him wonder why he; a craven; had been blessed with survival and not his strong and honorable father or his charming and bold brother. His kind and gentle mother certainly deserved life more than he did, as had his beautiful baby sister. So Daeron had the right of it; oftentimes he did find himself wondering if he was truly worth the effort the Targaryen's and Velaryon's put into making him happy. Less often, but often enough, he wondered if Daeron really loved him and found himself asking if he could blame the boy for finding another. Those thoughts faded quickly and he never dwelt on them nor gave them serious thought; but they were there nonetheless.

Looking up at the boy he had fallen in love with Lucos saw anger in his features mixed in with the love and adoration that the younger boy; though only by a few moons; often had in his eyes when he was around Lucos. Such a contradicting expression had crossed Daeron's face before; several moons previous, when Daeron had first seen the scar on his leg caused by a crossbow bolt he'd been hit by when escaping Essos; and Lucos had initially been confused as to what he'd done to earn Daeron's anger. It hadn't been until later that Daeron explained he'd been angry at the men who attacked him, rather than Lucos himself. Expression softening, Daeron leaned in and pressed a much more tender and loving kiss to lips than the brief and chaste one they'd shared moments earlier. Breaking the kiss seconds later, Daeron pressed his forehead against Lucos', and when he spoke his breath brushed gently over Lucos's lips, tantalizingly close.

"I love you," he whispered "I wish you believed that,"

"I do," Lucos said back just as gently "I believe you. And I love you too,"

Daeron smirked "Good," he grinned "That means I won't have to command you to stay with me,"

"Command me?" Lucos questioned, a questioning tilt to his voice "When have I ever done what I'm told? I'm not even supposed to be here; in your rooms or even Oldtown at all,"

"I seem to recall you doing exactly what I told you to last night," came the teasing reply.

"Now for those things, I don't mind following orders,"

"Then I order you to do them again,"

Growling, but grinning nonetheless as he recalled the events of the night, Lucos gripped Daeron by his hips and flipped them so that their positions were reversed, with Lucos now hovering above Daeron. Giving the silver-blonde a grin, he leaned down and once more they met in a kiss, more passionate than those they had already shared and Lucos resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't be leaving the room for a few hours yet, meaning it would be late morning before they joined the Hightower's. Though when he pulled out of the kiss; eliciting a moan from his lover; and looked down at Daeron's flushed body, Lucos found he didn't much care about that. Though he did still have one concern.

"What if someone comes in?" he asked, glancing over at the door. Him sneaking in to join Daeron of a night was one thing. After the castle had retired, the odds of someone entering Daeron's rooms were minimal and Lucos was able to get back to his own guest room before anyone else was even awake. A morning was another matter entirely. Maids or servants could and often did at any time, going about their duties. And given that Daeron was actually avoiding his duties as Lord Ormund's squire so as to remain in bed with Lucos only increased the chance of someone coming looking for the King's youngest child, probably Ormund himself. If that happened then word would almost certainly reach Alicent and Viserys, not to mention Rhaenyra, and they'd definitely be forbidden from seeing each other. That was something Lucos would very much like to avoid. He may not say it often, but he thought that he truly loved Daeron. He'd been fascinated by the other boy since they first met and according to Daeron, that was mutual. If leaving Daeron for the morning meant they could continue with their relationship, then Lucos was willing to make that sacrifice.

"The door is locked, and no one would dare enter without permission," Daeron assured him, calming the worst of his worries "I think they're scared I'll set Tessarion on them,"

"Would you?"

"Mayhaps if they interupted us. Now I thought I gave you an order,"

Grinning, Lucos replied with a mocking "At once, my Prince," and made to kiss the other boy again, when a loud knock echoed throughout the room. Both boys froze for half a second before worriedly glancing at each other. Daeron hurriedly made to leave the bed only to hesitate as a soft, briskly cold breeze blew through the room, making the younger shiver and glance at Lucos, imploring him to be the one to go to the door. Lucos snorted at that. He wasn't even supposed to be in the room. Him being the one to open the door would be incredibly stupid. Besides, Daeron was the one who wouldn't let him light the fire. If he was cold then it was no one's fault save for his own, and the dark haired youth had no issues with telling his lover as much. Daeron huffed and quickly pulled on a pair of breeches and his boots, before wrapping a thin, thigh length black shirt around his upper body and crossing to the door, with Lucos lounging on the bed, drinking from a half full skin of ale he'd put on they'd drank from the night before, enjoying the view.

Thankfully the door opened inwards, and half open the only thing a person outside could see was the half of the room that the bed was not on. Daeron opened it enough that it didn't seem suspicious yet not so much that Lucos could be seen. Unfortunately, from his position he couldn't see who it was that had interupted them and both Daeron and the uninvited and unwanted guest spoke in low, quiet tones. He saw Daeron accept something from the other person and then watched as confusion frittered across his valyrian features before he started to close the door, whoever it was evidently leaving. The door clicked closed and Daeron made his way back to the bed. Daeron sat down on the edge of the feather mattress and Lucos sat up, pulling on some clothes as he did so, before sitting next to him.

Looking at the item held in the other boys hand, Lucos saw it was a letter bearing the seal of the King. That wasn't all that unusual in Lucos' mind, as Daeron received messages from his father on a fairly regular basis. This one was a little sooner after the last one, perhaps, but that couldn't be the reason for the utter disbelief that was currently adorning Daeron's face, surely.

"What is it?" he asked, and upon failing to get a response his voice grew more concerned "Daeron?"

"A letter from King's Landing," he said finally "Ser Jon brought it to me," Ser Jon Hightower was the first cousin of Lord Ormund and the steward and castellan of Oldtown, forcing Lucos to wonder why such a man was delegated the task of delivering a letter even if it was addressed to a prince "He...it was...he gave me his condolence's,"

Oh, Lucos realized. Without further prompting he gently placed his arm around Daeron's should, offering him silent support, knowing that after a message like that it would be incredibly frightening to open such a letter, knowing what information it might contain but not wanting to find out. Lucos could only guess, but he imagined that Daeron was fighting with his desire to open the letter and get it over with, and his wish to ignore it and pretend that the message it inevitably contained simply wasn't true. Once he saw it, it became true, which Lucos was astute enough to realize Daeron wanted to put off.

Drawing in a deep breath and seeming to take comfort from Lucos' presence, Daeron broke the wax seal and unfurled the scroll, his eyes flicking from left to right as he read the carefully written, and no doubt carefully chosen, words. He reached the end of the letter, paused and then read it again, several times, his face growing paler and paler each time, his eyes widening in complete disbelief. Lucos thought this reaction a little odd, but didn't comment; he didn't really know how people dealt with the loss of their family. He hadn't really been given a chance to cope after his own had been murdered as he was too busy trying to survive to process the loss, and when he did he clung to the first person he found; Jace. He was fairly certain that wasn't how it was supposed to be done. But what did he know? He was a soldier not a poet or a scholar.

"What have they done!" the scream of outrage from Daeron snapped Lucos back into the present. His lover was trembling, his jaw was clenched; his teeth grinding together audibly; and his hands had balled into tight fists, crumpling the letter until it was almost completely ruined. Without warning, the silver-blonde shot up off the bed and began pacing up and down the room in agitation "My father is dead," his voice was cold, cut off from the gut wrenching sadness he was sure to be feeling. Daeron had loved his father "My mother and the Small Council have crowned...they've crowned Aegon as his successor," It took a moment for Daeron's words to register. When they did, confusion reigned for a few moments before a single thought forced it's way into the forefront of Lucos' mind; What? What!

"What?" Lucos shouted "Aegon? What do you mean they've crowned Aegon?"

"I mean exactly what I said. They say that as the first son, Aegon is father's rightful heir. They're sending ravens to all the house's asking for oaths of fealty and calling up men to fight Rhaenyra, and..." Daeron hesitated, something vulnerable and scared appearing in his lilac eyes. He clearly didn't want to say what else had been included in the note sent by; Lucos presumed; either Aegon or Alicent.

"And what, Daeron? What else did they say?" he asked, placing his hands comfortingly on Daeron's shoulders, trying not to be hurt when Daeron shook his hands off and moved away "What aren't you telling me?"

Daeron swallowed nervously "They...my mother, she...she wants me to...I've been ordered, I have to kill you," tears appeared, then and Daeron made a half hearted attempt to brush them away.

Lucos was quiet for a moment, molding his features into a blank mask and resting his weight on his back foot. He loved Daeron, but he wasn't going to allow himself to be killed. Dark grey eyes flickered around the room, looking for anything Daeron might think of to use as a weapon. His sword was across the room, with his armour but Lucos' was back in his own chambers. Daeron's dagger was behind Lucos on the cabinet and there was a dirk beneath the pillow. There were other objects that could potentially be used as a weapon but Lucos was willing to gamble that Daeron would move for a blade, and as such began planning an escape route for whichever weapons Daeron made a move towards.

But when after a moment, Daeron failed to move, Lucos; voice stoic; asked "Are you going to do it?"

This time the anger was directed at him "Of course I'm not! How in seven hells could you even ask that? I love you! I thought you believed me, or were you lying to me about that?"

"Love me enough to defy your family?"

"Yes," Daeron said, his voice still angry and full of conviction. Somehow, Lucos believed him, and allowed some; but not yet all; of the tension to seep from his body, relaxing his posture. Daeron sighed, chewing his lip anxiously. Lucos smiled slightly; it was a habit the boy had picked up from Lucos, one that drove his mother to near madness and was as yet undefeated, despite Alicent's attempts to make Daeron stop doing it. The smile dropped from his face at the taller boys words though "You need to leave, Lucos. I have no doubt that mother had told Lord Ormund to kill you should I fail in my 'duty'," the word duty was sneered in such a distasteful way that there was no question as to Daeron's opinion on that duty.

Lucos nodded slightly, pulling the rest of his clothes on and moving to the window, preparing to climb back to his own room and collect his sword before sneaking down to where Tessarion and Snowfyre were probably lazing, curled around each other under the winter sun that was shining over the city. Before he climbed out though, a thought struck him, one that made him pause and turn back to Daeron, who was stood over his desk on he far side of the room with tears running down his face.

"Come with me," he said, causing Daeron to snap around to face him "If you stay you'll have to fight for Aegon, you'll have no other choice. We'll be fighting each other and I can't do that. But I can't stay out of it, either. Even if I wished to, Aemond and Aegon would never let me; they'd force a fight no matter what I did,"

"Lucos," Daeron sighed "They're my family. I can't just abandon them,"

"Rhaenyra is your sister, too, and your father's named heir," the stocky boy argued back, and saw the conflict raging inside his friend and lover "You know what they've done is wrong, and Jace has been more of a brother to you these last years than Aemond or Aegon have. Daeron, I can't abandon Jace but I couldn't bring myself to face you on the field. Please don't make me choose,"

Almost as hesitantly as when they'd first kissed, Lucos leaned in once more and joined their lips together in a soft, tender kiss that he hoped to use as a way of bringing the love and affection Daeron oft claimed to hold for Lucos to the forefront of his mind. Despite how much he loved the other boy, Lucos wasn't above manipulating him to get what he wanted, just the same as Daeron held no such reservations for him, especially not when the success of that manipulation might just save him from the heartache of having to fight Daeron in battle.

When the kiss broke, Lucos looked into Daeron's eyes and waited for him to make his decision.

**Author's Note:**

> House Ryder ruled one of the minor kingdoms in what is now the North. They were eventually defeated and reduced to vassals by the Stark's. They ruled the region known as the Rills in the southwest of the North, which; as any fan will know; now belongs to the Ryswell's which means the Ryder's were either exterminated and exiled at some point between the Long Night and the start of A Game of Thrones.
> 
> My take on what happened, as well as Lucos' personal history (such as how he came to be in Westeros, why he has a dragon), will be revealed in coming chapters.
> 
> I think that's everything. Please leave a review if you liked this chapter. I hope you all come back when I post the second one.


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